Hope

Part of this whole allergy foofaraw was that I had to have blood drawn to see if I have some apparently ugly, mold-inspired asthmatic hoedown going on in there (its scary medical name is Allergic Bronchopulmonary Aspergillosis). The doctor didn’t remember that she wanted me to do this, however, until I was already back home. Come back, she said. I want to send this off as soon as we can. So back I went to the hospital, this time with family in tow since I was almost overcome with histamine from all the allergy shots that morning. Ed went off to park while the children and I navigated the labyrinth of corridors leading to the lab. Hospitals are hard places just to wander. They always seem to me to be filled with people sinking. People dying. I always leave hospitals feeling like I have never really been ill, and like I never want to be.

The outpatient lab in HUP (the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania) is stuck way off in an ironically dusty, mold-riddled corner of the building. When you get there you have to take a number, like at the deli, which thrilled Daniel and he engaged everyone waiting in a lively conversation about which number he had, which numbers they had, which number he had had last time he had come here (which he hadn’t) which number Helena had had, who would go next, who would have to wait longest and whether he should take another number just to make sure. He also told everyone I needed to have my blood sucked, that I’d been allergy tested, that I was 36 and that I had wrinkly knees, which I don’t. They called several of us at once and we all traipsed into a large room with five little alcoves off a central space, all with curtains but none of them drawn. Each of us went and skulked in our own little cubicle while Daniel counted the alcoves just to make sure.

There was no hope of not overhearing what was happening to everyone all around us, even if I had been vaguely inclined not to eavesdrop. There was also no room for the children to sit in my bloodletting alcove so I stood and waited for a nurse to come, watching Daniel and Helena kicking their heels on the two random chairs in the center and discussing the purpose of gauze. While I was waiting and supervising, the man in the next cubicle over chatted pleasantly to his nurse who had asked how he was feeling.

“Well,” he said, “this time last year I had seven lesions and this year, I have none. I’ve been exercising, eating well, I gave up drinking and you know, they were right about all that stuff. I feel wonderful.”

I wanted to hug him, this stranger with the good story. Maybe I should have. His hope burst in me like a grape and I carry the sweetness of it still. I’m even thinking of eating better and exercising more. Although I’m sticking with the drinking for now.

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