I had spent a good part of the morning moving from department to department at the hospital. My initial check-in required signing, initialing and dating pages of legal forms while digging into the pockets and corners of my wallet for insurance and I.D. cards. Once I’d proven to the administrators and clerks that I was who I claimed to be, and that I would pay them for imbuing me with new life, I was granted admittance and ordered to proceed to the Interventional Radiation Department.
It’s a big hospital. They do their best to move you along with a verbal explanation followed by a map painted on the corridor floors in multicolored stripes.
A heavy woman with an impassive smile and a name tag labeling her as “Helen” gave me the verbal piece, “Just follow the red line over there, then turn left, past the elevator, pick up the blue line to the stairs, go up a floor, then turn right on the yellow line.” She held up a finger, turned to another woman and asked, “Is that the yellow line, or the yellow and orange line?” The other woman answered with a nod and Helen continued, “Okay. There’s a yellow and an orange line up there, but that’s okay. Just turn right and keep going. When it becomes just the yellow line, follow that to Radiation. It’s real easy, Hon.” Continue reading
Cook offered me the job after he learned of my poor health. I believe that he thinks that he’s part of the Make A Wish Foundation. I can’t disclose the amount of my compensation, but I can describe it as unbelievable.
