HOUSTON, Texas — The way I see it about living with acute leukemia is there’s nothing good about it. Not a fucking thing.
I can run to the nurses’ station and ascertain why it takes so long to get back when the robo-beeping from the kink in the IV tube is driving him insane.
I can carry a heavy bag to the ER and back again, if they let him out, once they determine it’s not the pneumonia again and not even the flu but a virus called para-influenza that won’t kill him, today.
When he’s so cold his teeth rattle in a stifling-hot room, I can tuck the blanket around his shoulder.
If the treatments and exams are painful and scary, the time in between them is worse: it’s boring. I can’t do anything about the pain and the fear. I can sit there and be bored, right along with him.
So I watch “Live Cops” hour after hour, and I hate that show. But thank god for television on our television sets and the droning voices and scripted realities that beg our ridicule.
And sports. And golf. We watched a good six hours Sunday, waiting for McIlroy to choke at the Players.
We weren’t bored, all that time. Bored, I’m learning, is just another word for lonely.