Later today, I will call the nurses at the hospital and ask if they have a bed available for me to begin chemotherapy. There are a limited number of beds available on the oncology floors.  They never know when someone will need one in a hurry or how long they will stay, so beds can’t be promised to people with less urgent needs. If there are no vacancies I will call back tomorrow.

I find myself surprised that uncertainty keeps popping up in places where I don’t expect it. This doesn’t throw me as much as it used to.  I realize it would be worse if the nurses had given me a definite date and time and then called at the last minute to postpone it.  At least this way I can plan for not knowing. I also planned to have several odds and ends taken care of, piles of paper sorted, house cleaned and organized,  friends visited, called or emailed before I go into the hospital, and thats not going to happen. I will always run out of time. Thats just the way it is.

I’m now a card carrying member of  two new clubs I didn’t want to join. One card, I am supposed to carry with me at all times, has information about my dual lumen chest port . This makes me a member of a club of humans who are slightly bionic, but our artificial components give us no cool powers like flight or clairvoyance.

The other is a member card for SPARC , a collective that runs a medical cannabis dispensary south of Market St. It exemplifies the transitional characteristics of the neighborhood; dot.com meets skid row. The menu of medicine available reads like a wine list. The staff is very young and clearly excited about their cause. There is a ‘vapor bar’ along one wall where patients can socialize as they inhale. They also offer meditation classes with or without cannabis enhancement.  At first, I found myself  asking where are the granny pot clubs for people like me, then I became warily charmed.  I brought home a little bag of blue dream and a pretty little blown glass water pipe (bought down the street at an even funkier place called ReLeaf).  I tucked these magic talismans away in a drawer. Just knowing they are available to me if I want them gives me comfort.

Here’s a poem I wrote when I woke up yesterday:

Kindly remove your shoes as you enter the forest.
Everyone here knows your name.
It’s not formal, just necessary.
Make yourself at home among the roots.
We’ve been waiting for you.

You were homeless in your parents house,
Jobless at work. What do you have to lose
besides everything you have known?
No questions of like or dislike here,
only deep engines without machines.

Come join us, we provide shelter
between rocks and hard places.
Here leaves lie down, become soil
Leave your worries on the doorstep
and dream a blue dream for time being.