Fruit Punch

The metal detector is stanchioned off for the second week in a row. I zoom around it to the reception desk, where a woman I’ve never seen before asks what I’m there for. She asks for my date of birth. When I tell her, she says, “But that’s…” 

“Yes, I came here to celebrate,” I say. The old guy in the big white passenger transporter pulls up. I ask if he wants to race. He says I’d probably beat him.

I’ve been up since four and can barely keep my eyes open- I actually napped on the bus- so I roll in to the Starbucks to get coffee. I’ve never been in here, though I pass it every day; I hate their coffee, and feel guilty because I know a lot of their workers are going on strike. 

I give my thermos to the young woman behind the counter and ask her to fill it with coffee. 

“I have to give you a to-go cup,” she says.

“But I can’t carry a to-go cup,” I say. 

“I’m sorry. I can give you a paper cup and you can pour it in yourself.” I tell her okay but I don’t need a plastic lid. She puts a plastic lid on the cup and I wheel over to the counter and take off the lid and throw it out and pour the coffee into my thermos and throw out the cup. This planet is doomed.

As I sit upstairs in the waiting area, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from the foot clinic. I hadn’t been there since March, and I hope to never go there again. I can’t imagine what they want; I made my last payment last month. 

Hi recipient on behalf of the entire Oregon Foot Clinic team, we’d like to wish you a Happy Birthday. May this be your best year yet!

Exactly one year ago, I was enjoying my first day away from the hospital in a week and a half. It had felt like a wonderful gift, even though my toe was still purple and that same fucking team hadn't yet figured out that it was infected, hadn’t yet decided that my only option was to have it amputated. 

But here it is, a year later, and the infection is gone, and I still have my toe.

“To stop receiving these messages, press STOP. Msg&Data rates may apply.” I press STOP.

I wait a little while, then Kaitlin comes out to get me. She leads me to room three, where I haven’t been in months, and hands me something. It’s an advertisement printed on a sheet of thick paper, folded in half like a card.  Two sample packets of a therapeutic nutrition powder called Juven® are glued inside. There is a QR code to buy Juven® with a special discount. “Happy Birthday Seann!” is written on the front, with the second n squeezed in. The office staff has signed the inside. Kaitlin. Vicki. S’Jon. Shelley. Tobi. Taggert. Wait, who the hell is Tobi? She must be the quiet woman whose name I’ve never caught. None of the hyperbaric nurses have signed it; they probably did this last minute. 

The advertisement assures me that Juven® has apparently been clinically shown to support wound healing in chronic and acute wounds. It suggests that I use it under medical supervision in addition to a complete, balanced diet.

 “I’ll treasure this,” I say, tucking it in my post-op shoe so I don’t forget it. 

What follows is the least eventful visit I’ve had here since…well, possibly ever. I guess I should be grateful, though I’ll be honest, I was hoping for something a little more festive. Instead of singing and merriment there is… scant drainage from the wound. Instead of presents and decorations there are no new blisters or sores. I guess those are actually pretty good presents, but it’s all still a little anticlimactic.

S’Jon unwraps then rewraps my foot quickly and efficiently while Kaitlin sits at the computer. I’m the last patient of the day and they both want to get out of here to enjoy their two days off in the middle of the week. 

I try to engage them in conversation. I tell S’Jon I admire his forearm tattoos, which I couldn’t see clearly before. Both arms are covered with black and white forest scenes. His left arm features sunlight bursting through the pine branches. I tell him I like how subtle the shading is. He complains that his friend told him the shaft of sunlight looks like a penis and now that’s all he can see. 

I try Kaitlin, asking her what horror movies she has in store for Christmas. She says she got kind of burnt out over Halloween. I tell her about the Sasquatch film I saw but I can tell she’s not interested. They both leave me to wait in silence for Dr. Taggert. I stare up at the ceiling and wish I hadn’t left my phone in my coat pocket.

When she finally arrives she isn’t wearing her paper gown. “Whoops, better put on my party dress,” she says. Like the others, she seems distracted. 

“No Christmas carols?” I ask, expecting some screechy rendition of Jingle Bell Rock or Mariah Carey impression. She ignores the question, instead talking about some store in Hillsboro where she buys her meat. 

“It’s called The Meating Place. Get it? Get it?” 

“Sounds like a pick up joint,” I say. 

“They guy in front of me was paying $275 for a piece of meat THIS BIG!” She holds her hands a couple of feet apart.

She concentrates on wrapping the cast while Kaitlin assists. I’m eventually able to get them both to laugh uncontrollably. God knows what kind of stupid shit I say; without KC here to inspire me, I don’t seem to have anything clever to say. I hadn’t really expected to see her, but I was still hoping. Her wild laugh and smack on my arm would have made a wonderful birthday present. 

Instead I have two packets of Juven®, from the makers of Ensure®, containing Arginine, Glutamine, and hydrolyzed beef collagen, one orange flavor and one fruit punch, along with a manufacturer’s coupon good for ten dollars off one 8-count package at Walgreen’s (not valid for product reimbursed, in whole or in part, under Medicare, Medicaid or similar federal or state government programs).

In the lobby I look around one last time at the Christmas decorations, at the blinking tree. When I return next week it’ll all be down, the room returning to its bland, soulless self. I’ve been coming here every week for over a year and the moment I roll out those doors I won’t be able to tell you the color of the walls or the pattern of the upholstery.

The temperature is dropping, but there is still a little bit of light left in the sky. We’re on the other side of the solstice. For the next six months, the days have no choice but to grow longer, whether they like it or not.