Farther Than You'll Ever See

It is time. Today's the day.

I got ready and headed to the Nephrologist. Dr. A told me to call first. Get directions because Beth Israel is a hospital that is all over the place. So I called and got directions. I headed down to 14th street, Union Square East, to a very high tech building and waited in a tiny lobby filled with people. This seemed strange to me since there were six elevators servicing the building. But every time the doors opened a packed elevator would disgorge people.

I piled into one of these packed things and rode it up to the second floor, which opened up into a high tech lobby, rising up into the air, with suites breaking off from it in all directions, like spokes on a wheel, with several wheels, one stacked on top of the other. I followed the signs to nephrology, into another tiny waiting area and filled out forms. Then I sat down in seats so close that your knees were an inch away from the person across from you.

A small child romped around in the room. I know most people think this cute, but I hate it. Children want to play with everything and everyone. Sometimes, I feel, parents, who have grown tired of their child's antics, allow them to do anything, and only call out to them, too lazy to stand up and take control of their little demons. Little motherfuckers could be setting fire to chairs and their parents do nothing but call out their names. I would ignore those lazy fucks myself if I was a child. Shit, when I was small, I lived in mortal terror of angering my parents. If my father said my name once, that was my only chance. The next time he would stand and smack fire down on my ass. Simple as that.

Well, this parent was the lazy type, leaving the care and watching of her little brat to the poor recep- tionists trying to work behind the counter. I wanted to get up and spray mace in the mother's face. She how she'd like that. Would she stand up and run in bloody circles or would she just sit there and call out to her monster as if nothing had happened? That just how numb I believe she was. I was so grateful that the nurse called me in, took my blood pressure and weighed me. Then I was back outside with the brat.

I sat for away from the little ailment and minded my own business until he ran up to me, scaring the shit out of me, moving like a little Chucky. I was about to boot him across the room but he stopped short for his sake, seeing my alarm and ran back to his mother. No pal here buddy.

The doctor called me in and we had a big discussion about my urinary functions. No major problems. He ordered up a blood and toxicology test and then I was given an appointment four weeks from now. It was a snap. I worked it up to be a big assed thing, and it turned out to be nothing.

I went to my therapist after that. Dr. L.

"We need to be on the path to term- ination." Here she is, saying that word again. "Term- ination in about two or three weeks," she continued. "We'll look into further therapists and see if we can set you up with another psychologist after this. Where you can get the one on one therapy you need." That's great Dr. L. NO, it's not great. I happen to like Dr.L. She is my most favorite therapist out of all of them, and now she's talking about replacing herself. It's enough to make a grown man cry. I am not happy.

She asks for Toxicology. I leave her piss.

I wander uptown, going on foot to take in the nice Spring day, and head to Madison Avenue Starbucks and get online for the rest of the afternoon. It's a lazy day, and there isn't much to do after taking care of all my appointments. My brother joins me much later and we stay for awhile before leaving uptown to Grand Central and the BMT or not after googleing it, I find that it's the IRT (Interborough Rail Transit) and not the Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit. Whatever. I hate the line anyway. I get on the trains and ride up to 96th Street with my brother and see him off on the train. Then I head up to my crib and get online for a minute, looking for email. Then I set off for sleep.

I dream hard and distant.

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