Dr. Feelgood

Mom and I are upstairs in Grandma’s room at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital waiting while she is fitted for her radiation mask. The doctors removed 90% of the mass which was restricting airflow to her lungs, inserted a stent and she will now undergo two weeks of radiation therapy on her lung to shrink the remaining portion of the mass. I am absolutely relieved when they tell us that surgery went well and her chances of surviving at least one year are great. We may continue to share adventures together and perhaps still take her away on the cruise that she always wished to plan!

I am on-line reading The Times, considering whether dating is truly dead and the hook up alive and well, when there is a knock at the door. It is the handsome, young, resident who wakes me each day at 6:00 a.m. with a chipper, “Good morning, Sunshine!”, before performing the daily check-up on Grandma with the other young doctors. He is now here alone; visiting to discuss Grandma’s pain management options, addiction, and various other issues which we may encounter during the course of her treatment. He tells us to contact him if we need anything at all, even the seemingly most insignificant issue; he will be happy to listen. Writing his contact details on a small piece of paper, I ask his name, as I can’t read the name listed on the identification badge. Bashful, for the first time, he mumbles, “Romeo Jackson”. Well, of course it is. How else would he be named, if not Romeo? Simply looking at him I thought how befitting a name for such a lovely, young man. We all stand and there is an awkward moment between he and I for a moment before he leaves; there really was an awkward moment–oh no, it was not my imagination.

“Frankie, you should totally go for him”, insists my mother, breaking my reverie.

“Huh? What?”, I reply, “He is cute, though also a doctor who is working in the hospital where Grandma is receiving treatment. Wouldn’t that qualify as some type of ethics violation?”

“You are crazy! You would look great together”, she insists. “Look at this sheet of paper! Doctors don’t offer their personal cell phone numbers–that is why they have pagers; so they are not disturbed on their personal telephone line. He wants you to call him!”

And so I asked myself, “Self, is that why doctors have pagers?”

“I saw how you looked at him…and…how he looked at you”, oh she knew what to say; damn selective maternal tendencies!!

At that moment, an orderly enters, pushing Grandma in a transport chair. Her smile and bright energy are all I need to continue moving with her along the quest toward recovery. “Oh Frankie! I just saw that young doctor in the elevator! What a hunk! If I were a younger woman…“ –Frankie

Holidays with the Valentines

So Elizabeth and I were seeing less and less of each other since she was worried about getting laid off, but she still called all the time. I mean all of the time. I heard from her either by text, email or phone call every half an hour. One minute was “I love you and I miss you” the next was, “You are not thinking of cheating on me are you?” It was well overwhelming and annoying. I felt a bit strangled. I wasn’t cheating on her. I wasn’t do anything. It was Thanksgiving week!

Thank goodness for the holidays. I traveled home for Thanksgiving to my parents home with the big Valentines mailbox with the heart on it. My parents had known each other since junior high and married right after high school. This was an expectation I had never dreamed of, but I think secretly my parents hoped I would have encountered so I could get married and procreate young.

Upon my arrival home I was grilled by grandma, my aunt, my cousins and my uncle about the “boy” I was seeing. Now, mind you, my parents don’t know I’m seeing anyone, and I’m content with that and, in fact content, at the moment, in them thinking I’m single. Now while everyone is trying to set me up with some nice boy they know, I’m thinking of my phone, which I know keeps ringing or beeping from text messages, and is purposely left in the front seat of my car.

By the end of the night I had stuffed the turkey, and I believe I had also been set up on five virtual dates. My mother had told me she handed out my phone number to at least two available guys at her own job because she thought they were so great. I’m not so sure they are though.

What I do know is my mother got tipsy and walked into me while I was taking a pee. “Oh my, Ruby!” she exclaimed. “What have you done to your boom-boom (she said exclaimed toward her own vaginal area, covered by jeans)?”

“Um, it’s shaved, ma. Please shut the door.”

“That’s not nice. Only Lesbians do that sort of thing. Men like hair,” she said as she shut herself in the bathroom with me.

“Well, I work out and its not healthy. I don’t prefer to have hair down there, ” I answered rolling my eyes and flushing the toilet. “Besides not all men like hair…”

“You’re not a lesbian. Are you? I think they are dirty. I mean who wants to lick a diseased pussy?” she asked.

“Well, certainly not me,” I answered as I pulled up my pants and decented out of the bathroom. “But I don’t want to suck on a diseased dick either. So I wouldn’t be too quick to judge.” I answered loud enough that other family members took a sideways glance at me in the hall as I shut the bathroom door. And I was certainly thankful I wasn’t as judgemental as many people can be . - Ruby