Thursday: February 16, 2012

I sit here typing on my laptop from my hospital bed. The fuzzy, post-surgery high has begun to recede. I feel some pain, as I should.

There are two impressive scars on my leg, one about 4 inches long on my calf, the other about 2 inches long on my ankle. The doctors want me up and walking as much as possible. It hurts, but it's manageable. They give me Percocet when I need it.

They also have given me a new weapon to stop the clots, a byproduct of chemo and cancer, from returning. It's called Lovenox, which I must inject twice a day into my belly much like a diabetic shoots insulin.

I just gave myself my third injection as Tiffany the nurse watched approvingly at my technique. (Side note: Virtually every nurse on my floor, regardless of age, is hot, Tiffany included. Good job, Clinic. No doubt part of its overall healing strategies.)

Yesterday, a social worker from the Clinic rushed into my room and asked what health insurance I have. I told her and she left. She returned later with a look of relief on her face and said everything was fine, that I could use Lovenox.

A nurse in my room told me later what the fuss was about. Lovenox costs around $100 an injection. I would be giving myself two shots a day for at least the next six months. I'll be paying my normal amount for a month's supply of drugs -- $15. Retail? It adds up to around $6,000 a month.

I'm waiting on breakfast and someone to push to me to radiation. My buddy Mike is bringing lunch that we'll eat in my room. I'm not sure what we'll eat yet, but whatever he decides, it will be 1,000 times better than the slop the Clinic serves. It's amazing that one of the world's great medical facilities would have such crappy food.

And, if all goes as planned, I'm gonna get sprung tomorrow.

This week is just a speed bump. Belly shots? Gimme a dozen. Clots? I'll cut 'em out with a butta knife.

I'm feeling like the Cowardly Lion right now, full of bravado. I just hope Dorothy decides not to slap me.

Is my nose bleeding?