hospital day

“It is rather like a 3-star hotel,” M observes as we sit in the oncology department at a hospital not far from her home. Pale periwinkle plastic padded chairs, orange vertical shades, and round tables decorate the room where three ladies wait for the doctor, and then for the bags of poison solution to finish dripping into their veins. A man in scrubs stops by periodically to offer us something: coffee, yoghurt, lunch which nobody eats. They served all in plastic bowls: 25 radishes, an apple (which M says is full of pesticides), a bread role, butter, a piece of orange cheese and a mystery hot plate the lids never came off. M’s treatment will take the longest. We got here at 8:30 and might get to leave by 5. M and I take turns napping.

M is the only one who bothers with a wig. The other ladies wear their bald heads with pride. They say it is too hot. Yesterday, we found thin polyester caps for 1.50 euros from a clothing store for Moslem women; M bought two for sleeping. She says her head gets cold, but I wonder if she feels modest. She looks fantastic, and (except today) I haven’t seen her this happy in years.

From a conversation about my life, she expressed that in France it is impossible to find a new job if you are over 45. She’s been miserable in hers for years. She told herself that the only way out was to get sick, and her body complied. Meanwhile, her oldest daughter unexpectedly gave birth to twin girls with only one month’s warning to others (the twins knew for 8 months). My paranoid mind hasn’t discovered the cosmic significance of that event yet.

Grayson always said: “the more you do, the more you do.” So, today I can only tell you about the waiting room in the oncology wing of this hospital. I’m grateful to be here for M, but I don’t have much to blog about. I’ve been reading Ilana’s subscription to the New Yorker and Margot’s copy of Refuge, and editing photos of Champagne.

A few things I have learned in conversations: the electric company runs like a for-profit with the goal of expanding business. Thus, it has an incentive to bring electricity to developing countries where France is involved or it will not be able to expand its business. They can do this because no one seems to be critical of nuclear power, which of course can be provided in endless supplies if you’re not worried about human error or what to do with the waste.

If a person’s job is to transition functions overseas to India (in this case, but it could be elsewhere), he would be working to put his colleagues out of work while trying to keep his own job. Is the ideal result for all work to be taking place in India, and the information streams be perfectly maintained by a few people in France while everyone else works in another field or not at all?

The people who say things say that “rules are made to be broken.” The Germans love rules. The French love rules too… particularly for the purpose of breaking them. I appreciate that about this culture. I loved the story in Paris to the Moon where the EU rules for making Rockfort cheese were so strict that it didn’t mold properly. The cheese makers fixed the problem by opening a window to let the night air blow onto the fermenting cheese and bring with it the necessary bacteria.

On the same day (yesterday), both Gwen and J (who have never met) complained to me about Parisiens. They love the city without them. (Everyone goes on vacation in August.) I made the statement here recently that Parisiens aren’t rude, but both these Parisiens disagree. They also love the lack of traffic and many languages being spoken in the streets. I just love Paris.