CLINIC (1)

I have my ALS clinic visit today.

Every three months I go to Beth Israel Hospital (in the past it's been Columbia Presbyterian and John Hopkins) and check in for a half day visit to be probed and inspected by a team of medical pundits. (None of these experts can save me).

"We just want you to be as comfortable as possible for the end."

(This is what the assertive, young, male, Asian, physical therapist explained to me today).

And so this morning, I prepare for the quarterly event with a big breakfast cooked by Mary; eggs, turkey bacon, toast, steamed kale, fresh squeezed orange juice, and freshly juiced celery, carrots, and spinach.
Mary takes my food requests like an enthusiastic short order cook: she relishes a demanding customer.

After breakfast I dress.

I choose a loud crayon red checkered button down. Preppy. My father's. County gentleman chic. Very "go to hell".  Mary has to get it from the top hanger for me. When she  asks what pants I'll be wearing - I'm ready for my driver to appear with top coat and gloves.

I'm ready. It's time to go.

My sister arrives energetic and lithe (in that family body I once shared) and I give final instructions to Mary like I'm the landed gentry of Litchfield.

"Mary. They're coming for the scooter, sign for me (please) and get the receipt. Bring my shirts to the cleaners downstairs. Prepare the casserole  for tonight, make the bed, and if you have time, could you bake that non-gluten banana bread?  I'll be gone the whole day, so just shut the door behind you. And keep a record of your hours."

My sister and I clamor onto the cold and hallow "Access A Ride" van downstairs on West 42nd Street. My sister takes a seat beside me as I'm locked into the floor with my chair. I stare ahead during the chaining; lost, pensive, removed. A dog unaware it's being crated.

We ramble through the sunny city and pick up other frail types. An old man on West 48th, a small Hispanic lady on East 52nd.

In the noisy cold of the tin van, my sister and I watch the revamped city glide by.

"There's my first apartment on 19th Street!"

"There's where I had my first apprenticeship through NYU!"

"And there's the Cinema Cafe! Did you ever go there with me? The Cinema Cafe?"

This usually evolves into a despairing conversation about lost real estate opportunities, a favorite topic of ours. My sister is forlorn over getting back to Brooklyn. Brooklyn is where she felt she could be her true self.

I tell her to sell her house in Connecticut and look around all the boroughs. Surely Park Slope (her home of ten years way back in the early eighties) is not the only place in Brooklyn she could live. She says she is considering many places around the city but adds woefully she misses Park Slope and pulls out the book,

"Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in that House".

"That's a good book" I say. "And it really puts into perspective the insanity of house lust."

We finally make it to Union Square by way of the FDR, East Houston and Bowery.
It's taken us an hour and a half.