Dean P. Demos

I have a visit with Dr. G. this morning.  My appointment is at 9:30 a.m.  That means I will sign in as soon as I go thru the door, sit down in a reception lobby with 8-25 others and wait until I am called to sign a “waiver” type of form.  Then, sit down and wait some more until I am called by a triage nurse who takes my vitals and draws blood.  I am then directed to another smaller “inner sanctum” lobby to wait for Dr. G’s nurse who will take me to a small patient room.  Then again, I wait for Dr. G., or his P.A., Kennan, have my visit to discuss lab results that monitor my progress and discuss the next step the medical world recommends to treat me for this health challenge .  When I get jumpy about it, I muse about the many processes encountered by students and parents alike at Trinity Christian School where I work.  I think how many times our parents sit there and wonder what the TCS administration could and should be doing about being considerate of the time and schedules of others.  Then, I realize that I don’t want to be a squeaky wheel like some you and I know.  So, I give my full attention to whatever they want to do, commend them on their professionalism, and try to get some work done on my phone or laptop in the meantime.

Then, after my visit with Dr. G.’s staff, I walk 20 feet to the “Chemo room” where black vinyl recliners line the perimeter of a large area that reminds me of a sterile hair parlor.  A glance around the room reveals assorted patients, mostly seniors, dressed comfortably, receiving their cancer-fighting drugs via a slow-drip intravenous method or direct injection.  Mine is generally the direct injection technique … a quick poke into my “fuel cell,”  that large growth that hides my belt buckle from my sight. [It’s getting smaller, thanks to my nutrition mentor, Gary Demos]  Mind you, this process also includes another sequence of waiting periods to allow the attending staff to process you in the order they received your paperwork.  They really hustle, give critical, accountable attention to their mission to avoid potentially devastating accidents (oops, you just got Aunt Maude’s anti-depression chemo cocktail by mistake).  Think of it.  If I act different, now you know why.

This whole process can take up to three hours.  I have a full time job.  Praise the Lord, the steroids I am taking put me in a higher gear so I will just knock out a lot of stuff before the day is out.  Then, there’s always tomorrow morning when I wake up at 1:30 a.m. WIRED!  I can do my work then.