Hand shakes, White Castle and vomiting . . . (not that any of those are related)

Definition of awkward: Social worker who totally, completely, utterly disses my outstretched hand offered during our introductions yesterday. Ummmm, yeah. . .

So, yesterday, when I stopped by the hospital for my daily dose of Bob, we decided to get the hospital social worker to come up and help us make wade through the quagmire that is Social Security disability. The reality is, he hasn't worked in three months. In fact, he said he figured out that yesterday was the exact three-month date from when he stopped working. Happy anniversary. . . Right now, we have no idea how long he'll be out of work; between chemo, surgery, possibly more chemo, recovery, we don't know what's in store for him, how long this'll go on. Things are fine for us now, but as I'm quickly learning, to quote the wise, beloved John Lennon, life is what happens when you've made other plans. Thus, we're ironically trying to be proactive, find out what options are out there for us, put up the safety net before disaster hits. Maybe Bob'll never have to go on disability, but we may as well start getting things in place, since we all know how swift, efficient and rational our government is. . .

We're told it's no problem to arrange for a meeting with a social worker while in the hospital, that they're just a phone call away. Bob wanted to do it while I was there with him, so we could ask questions and take notes together. So, his very kind nurse (they're all very kind up on 7D) made the phone call for us yesterday and said the social worker would be right down to meet with us. Few minutes later, we heard a voice outside Bob's door introducing herself as the social worker.

A woman entered her room and greeted Bob. They had met once before, back during his first hospitalization (when he became so sick from the first infusions). I'd never met her before and stretched out my hand in greeting. "Hi, I'm Bob's wife, Jennifer," I said in my customary sunny manner (quit groaning. You all know that's me . . .). Then . . . (loud, dramatic organ music inserted here) the dis. There I'm standing, smile on my face, outstretched hand in the direction of Madame Social Worker, and I'm met with a big, fat handful of nothing. Yessiree, ladies and gentlemen. A complete and utter disregard for my greeting. She looked me straight in the eye and continued her own introduction.

I quickly recovered from the snub by turning my outstretched hand into a flourished fuss-with-my-hair gesture (as if that wasn't painfully obvious), and sat down. As Mdm. Social Worker and Bob started discussing the reason for her visit, I started obsessing why, why, why would this professional woman do this to me: Doesn't she like me? Is it my hair? People either love or hate redheads, y'know . . . did I look at her a funny way? Does she have a burning desire for my husband and is insanely jealous of me? Am I insane? May I just imagined it? Maybe she didn't see my hand, which was thrust right in front of her, as she looked directly at me . . . Despite the barrage of neurotic thoughts pummeling my brain, it took only a moment to process this very brief interaction before the light turned on. Ohhhhhhhhh . . . I get it now . . . she doesn't want to catch my cooties!

I quickly pulled myself together and joined in the discussion with Bob and Mdm. SW. We talked about what Bob needs to do to apply for social security disability, who we need to call, what's required on our end, how the process works. She clarified for us that social security disability is solely based on one's disability, not on one's income. Seriously, did she really just ignore my handshake? WTF? She also shared with us a number of other useful resources we can tap into, should we need them—legal services for cancer patients, other assistance programs that can provide small grants for things like groceries, gas, etc. Again, we may never need such services, but good to know they exist, and how to access them, should things get to that point. Okay, did my fingernails look unkept, grungy? Was I picking my nose when she came in? Not exactly pretty stuff to talk about, this disability stuff, but absolutely necessary. It's too easy to fall apart, to put your head in the sand and ignore this crap. God knows how many mornings I wake up and just want to pull the blankets over my head, go back to sleep for a very, very long time. Like, till all of this is over. Let someone else do this. I'm totally unqualified, totally inexperienced . . . Sorry, Jen, that ain't an option. Actually, I'm finding that the more proactive we are, the more involved I am in all of this, in digging, searching, asking questions, the less helpless I feel. Why didn't she just say that she preferred to not shake hands . . .

Overall, Mdm Social Worker was a very nice, very helpful woman, and I'm grateful it worked out to meet her while I was with Bob, but all the while, as we talk, I cannot let go of the simple act of her ignoring my handshake. Now, don't get me wrong, peeps. In this very contaminated society in which we live, with deadly viruses weaving their way through the general populations, I get it. (Though it's not the swine flu that scares me. The fact that a helluva lot of people do not wash their hands after using the bathroom does.) I absolutely understand and respect someone's desire to not shake hands. But seriously—to completely ignore someone's outstretched hand? Really. How 'bout a simple explanation? That you work with a lot of sick people and you prefer not to shake hands. Or, what about this idea: buttons for the staff at the U of MN hospital to choose to wear, something happy but to the point: "We 'heart' our patients and want to keep them healthy! Please don't be offended if I don't shake your hand!"

What made this so glaringly obvious (besides my neurotic mind) is that, in our many weeks of hospital visits, doctor's appointments, and countless other contacts with medical professionals in this journey, this is the first time that a health care professional did this to me. Every doctor has offered his or her hand in greeting, usually before I do. Every nurse, anyone else with whom we've had more than a brief encounter. The hospital is littered with canisters of hand sanitizer. Even so, I totally get this woman's wish to not shake hands, but would not be carrying on like a Sinefeld episode, if she had simply addressed the situation directly. Okay, lesson for the day, kids. Just be direct. Passivity (is that a word? If not, it is now) sucks.

Oh! Are you all here, waiting around to find out about how Bob's doing? Well, why didn't you say so?!? Honestly, not much to report with these hospital stays, which is why I go off on tangents, obsess about the absurd, report on the mundane, revel in the everyday activities going on around us, in the midst of this crazy thing called cancer. He had a little harder time with side effects yesterday; threw up a few times and had been kind of queasy all day, not able to eat much. Don't know why, maybe the second round packs a harder wallop, maybe the drug builds up in his system and the effects don't show up till round two . . . hopefully, he'll feel better today. I'm meeting a friend for an early dinner after work tonight, at a new(ish) restaurant in St. Paul called Brasa. "Latin comfort food" is what their website says. I told Bob if he's feeling up for it, I'd order something to go for him and bring it up for dinner.

After the social worker left, Bob and I took a walk around his wing. He unplugged the IV, wrapped the cords around his "Patient Pal" (the stand that holds all the IV bags; says it right on the pole, Patient Pal), and headed out. Slow going, but it always feels good to get out of bed and move. At some point during this stay, he'd like to get outside and get some fresh air, especially since it's been so nice. Our walk went by too fast and before long, I had to pack up and head to work. Penny and Jim were coming up in the afternoon, so I didn't feel quite as bad about leaving. We returned to his room, said our goodbyes and I was gone.

On my way to work, I was nearly taken out by a White Castle semi truck that came barreling down an entrance ramp onto I94. Given Bob's penchant for WC sliders, I think that would have been the utmost living (or dead) definition of irony, me being flattened by an out-of-control WC semi. Of course, had to call Bob and share that tidbit with him. When I got to work, I had to park on a side street and walk a block to the salon. As I'm tip-toeing across ice and through puddles (yea! for warm temps and melting snow!), I spy what appears to be a bag lady walking toward me. Disheveled dress, check. Rumpled hair, check. Multiple grocery bags in hand, check. Talking to herself, check. Yup. Bag lady. Please don't start talking to me, please don't start talking to me, I pray internally, as I'm already late for work and I'm the kind of person who often, unwittingly, invites such colorful characters to stop and converse. Maybe it's my own crazy, disheveled hair . . . as I get closer, I try not to make eye contact, but, I can't help it. Not only is she talking to herself, but in another language. A foreign bag lady. Interesting. Then, I realize she's got a bluetooth device in her ear. . . Really. What's wrong with me? I scurry past the woman and into the salon, where my first client is already waiting for me, and start my day.

Friday morning . . .

Got a phone call from Bob this morning. He's feeling much better, nausea-wise, and got pretty good sleep last night. A short conversation, as a doctor or someone entered his room as we were talking. He said he'd call me later, to give me an update on how he's feeling. Penny and Jim will head over to the hospital later this morning, and I'll stop by early evening, with goodies from Brasa, if he's up for it. Thanks for letting me ramble, folks. Good therapy. The desire to go back to the U, find that social worker and cough all over her has dissipated . . .