Wednesday

Every two weeks I go to the cancer place.  Up two flights to the infusion center.  As far as I know, it’s like that flavored vodka or tea, except that they infuse me with something that comes out of a needle. 

I’ve been doing this for eight years.  There are others there who also just walk in, but then they have to stay there, connected to tubes infusing something much more potent than what I’m getting.  Their situation is infinitely more serious than mine and, often, they don’t have one year, let alone eight.

I’m kind of a drive-by in that I sign in, wait a couple of minutes until Lisa or Michelle or Don come by and poke me in the arm.  Then, I’m free to go.  Everyone is as nice as can be and they have even provided snacks for the patients to tide them over and to settle their stomachs. 

I’m usually there around lunch and, sometimes, I see the snack cart with its goodies and check out the selection.  Most of it is of no interest, but this week I saw the shiny blue wrapper of a pack of Oreos.  I looked around and put one of the packages into my pocket, unseen.  I’m both six and about sixty when I do this. 

Out in the car, once I’ve left the parking lot, I read on the blue wrapper that this is America’s Favorite Cookie.  That’s certainly true in this moment. 

I separate the halves to better enjoy the filling, as I wonder what else I can learn to love like Oreos.