Bye

OK, oncologist visit time. I take the bus to the hospital, take the elevator to the 8^th floor and go to the administrative office to pay the customary 30 euros and sign a bunch of silly documents. Unlike the last time, there is a line here, albeit not a very long one. Wait, but didn't we learn from the last time that administration has moved to a larger office with twice as many employees processing the patients, so there's no line?

Why, yes, we did. But meanwhile, there's been... development. One typical for the bureaucracy at least in my country. The room is half-empty, two of the employees are missing (having left two empty chairs) and the remaining two cannot process the patients fast enough, thus the line. As an added "bonus", the employees seem to be new ones in training (at least the one processing me seems so) and take an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what they're supposed to do, who am I, what I'm here for, and what to type into the computer. But it's done, eventually.

So, I move to the hall that serves as the doctor's cabinet, find a chair to sit on, and wait. Other doctors use this hall as their cabinet, too. I can't help but overhear their conversations with their patients, some of who are on chemotherapy. What I hear is... not pleasant. But I won't bother you with it now; we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Eventually, my oncologist (the young and helpful one) appears. I show him my blood tests, which seem perfectly normal (except the testosterone levels, which are nearly zero, but this, too, is precisely as it needs to be). He remembers me and my e-mail about the rash, so he instructs me to wait in front of the manipulation room, where he'll examine it, so I head there.

He arrives in a moment. Surprise, he's accompanied by the old big-name specialist. The latter is in a hurry (as usual), can't be assed to enter the manipulation room, and asks the young one if I've had a radiation therapy yet. Since I'm still around, I inform him, that no, I haven't. I wisely don't point out that I did ask the very first time whether the hormonal therapy shouldn't be combined with chemo- or radio-therapy, because my testosterone levels were low while my cancer is aggressive, but got an adamant "no" because he's supposed to follow the international guidelines.

I have no choice but do as I'm told. "Ha," exclaims the big-name specialist, "this is herpes zoster!". Well, thank you, Captain Obvious, but I already know that. "It's not a toxic reaction to the treatment." Well, it's nice to know that the poison that I've been prescribed hasn't managed to poison me yet. "Continue with the treatment and go see a dermatologist." Then he leaves us. In a hurry. Because of course he does.

The young and helpful oncologist has helpfully remained to give me prescription for the next box of pills and to answer my questions. He tells me that there's a dermatologist in the 3^rd floor. I ask him what is happening with the PET scan, because it's been a month already since we've requested it and I haven't heard anything from that department. Sadly, he doesn't know but advises me to ask them when I go down into the bunker for the next box of pills. I thank him and take my leave.

OK, routine time now. Trot downstairs to the bunker. Return the empty box of pills. (I haven't taken them for 5 days, so I still have 20 left - but I've removed them from the packaging and kept them in a glass at home, so that I can return the said empty packaging.) Wait for somebody to bring me a new box of pills, present and ID, sign a bunch of forms, take it and leave.

Next, the Nuclear Medicine Lab, to ask the PET scanner guys WTF is happening with my appointment there. A young lady informs me that the scanner (or, more exactly, the radioactive isotope for it) isn't available yet and probably won't be available this month. Don't call us, we'll call you. Lady, if meanwhile I die of cancer, I'm gonna haunt you. There's nothing else I can do here, so I leave.

Taking the elevator back to the 8^th floor for the sole purpose of signing a form that I've got the pills. I've heard a rumor that, in the distant future, people will invent this newfangled stuff called "computers" and "networks" that will be able to convey such information from the basement to the 8^th floor (miracle of miracles!) but, apparently, we aren't there yet.

Trotting down the stairs to the 3^rd floor, to see the dermatologist. Of course, it has its own administration room. Which has its own line of people waiting. Of course. Eventually, my turn comes and I inquire about the dermatologist I've been sent to see. Unfortunately, she's not available - she's busy with some kind of commission. The lady at the reception offers to book me an appointment for 17:00. I politely decline. (I've already spent half a day in this hospital, waiting for various things, and I need like an hour in order to reach it from home - which includes half a mile walking, because the hospital is in the middle of the fucking nowhere, so there's no way in hell I'm doing this again today.)

She offers to book me an appointment for another day and warns me that I'll have to pay, because this hospital doesn't work with the health insurance. Well, let's see. Drag myself again here on another day and pay - or visit my usual dermatologist for free who works near where I live? Decisions, decisions... So, I tell her thanks but no thanks and leave.

I take the bus home, eat a quick lunch, and go to bed, because I'm horribly exhausted, the rash burns, my back hurts, and tomorrow morning I have to wake up with the chickens because the appointment with my dermatologist is at 08:40 in the morning. So, signing off for now.