A while back I was on my way home with Beth, after our biweekly flirtation with anaphylaxis (allergy shots). Something didn’t seem right. I began to feel a little uncomfortable. Between the traffic and a talkative child, I was a little preoccupied, but nothing obvious was causing my little burst of anxiety. And no, it wasn’t the shots. It was Beth’s day and she hasn’t had any problems.

We drove past a blue and white highway information sign and it hit me. It was a hospital sign. We were just up the street from my vacation home last spring.

I had this brief thought that I ought to write a letter to the hospital, to thank the staff that made my stay much easier than it could have been. I ended up not writing the letter though. Those warm feelings came from the second week of my stay, after I was transferred to the oncology floor. It was easy to see how good I had it after the first week in gen pop.

Maybe that just makes it more important I write a letter.

By the way, in case you didn’t already know – I like to kid the allergist. Allergy shots did do me some good. I would have kept taking them if I hadn’t fallen into that small percentage of folks who don’t take them well. You know, when the shots turn a perfectly good throat into a musical instrument. Speaking of musical instruments, where is my inhaler?