Infusion Diaries: Drip Check
dose three, fully loaded
As a newbie to the IV lifestyle, I had assumed that infusion centers, like happy families, were all alike.
Nevertheless, the new location for my bimonthly oil change came with some nice surprises.
First off, rather than being configured in a huddle around the nurses’ station, the chairs here all face windows, which made me feel like I’d brokered Hannibal Lecter’s Plum Island deal from The Silence of the Lambs. (“What I want is a view. I want a window where I can see a tree. . .”)
Each station also came with its own tiny art print and a box of plastic plants, which was funny and slightly endearing.
But the chairs. . . Dear reader, the chairs went crazy. Adjustable backs. Cupholders. A modular little desktop that could be popped on either side depending on whether you’re right or left-handed.
As someone who’s getting juiced here, in part, for chronic spinal pain, I am incredibly grateful for the care for ergonomics.
Plus, it lets me pretend that I’m sitting in a nice movie theater for two hours, instead of somewhere hospital-adjacent. (Any touch that makes me feel less medicalized is usually welcome.)
The time still doesn’t exactly fly by, but bringing something meditative to read helps the drip feel more like a ritual than an inconvenience. I am still enjoying the collected work of this (to quote the “preeminent Proust scholar in the U.S.”) “total loser.” Marcel is still floundering his way through life in exquisite prose, but these lines landed especially hard with a needle in my vein:
I think there’s something about autoimmunity in particular that can make you feel like you’re in a constant struggle to communicate with yourself. Whether your body’s telling you it’s in distress for an unclear reason (“What is it, boy? Did Timmy fall down the well?”), or you’re begging for “pity” from a seemingly hostile vessel powered by good intentions, everyday living is like trying to chat with a cephalopod — not Proust's vision of total futility, but more like Amy Adams’s interactions with the alien presences in Arrival: you know it’s possible to connect, but it takes lots of nail-biting trial and error to establish a common language.
Fortunately, my body seems to be listening. I’ve officially finished the loading doses, so, from here out, I’ll be reupping every eight weeks. Hopefully, this round will get me comfortably into 2026, and we can tweak the volume on an ongoing basis.
Also, almost no Mouse Flu this time! Either I’ve acclimated, or I’m in denial about my new whiskers.
Mouse or not, I shan’t be stirring here again until January, so, in the words of a wise former student, if you can’t be well, then “take care and cope well.”
Thanks for being part of the Out-of-Network Network. I hope that everyone in community here does, in fact, feel that “in sickness” or in health “we are compelled to recognize that we do not live alone.”
P.S. Speaking of which, by popular demand, here’s an update on my household nursing staff:
