So, I talk to quite a few of you regularly on this site, I’ve been out of contact for a few days and wish to explain why.

On Tuesday, I awoke at about 10 pm with a severe headache, chills, and bluish gums and lips. I was in pain, I was hypoxic, I had turned a ghastly shade of ashen yellow, and so I went to a hospital.

It was funny: the triage nurse thought I was wearing “zombie makeup” until he couldn’t dislodge the “makeup”, when he actually commented that he’d never seen a living person my particular shade of pale (he really emphasized the ‘living’… far more than I would expect from a medical professional). He measured my blood pressure as 80/45, which was quite low; my O2 Saturation was 78, which was dangerously low. After an interview and a blood draw, the doctor on duty cleared me for my first blood transfusion, and I was admitted to the hospital. I had wanted to play dead and scare an intern or two while I was still pale and corpselike, but sadly my comedic sensibilities were deemed not conducive to a climate of healing. I was transfused with two more units that night. My blood pressure was 90/60 and my SpO2 had risen to 87, before I was sent away to the ward.

On Wednesday, the next morning, my oncologist visited. I had a paradoxical reaction to a drug meant to boost my red blood cell production; in that it caused hemolytic anemia—in brief a destruction of red blood cells. He ordered some scans and tests, which to my great relief came back clean. I’ll have a few more doses of chemo, just to be safe; but that period is looking more or less over.

I had a few more transfusions over Wednesday and Thursday and was on supplemental oxygen until early Thursday evening.

It was not an unpleasant stay. I had proper food for the first time in a few weeks. I tried almond milk for the first time and found that I like it. My roommate was about my age, a relative rarity in my experience, but was not the talkative sort and spent his time watching a marathon of The Adventures of Pete and Pete. I was aware of Pete and Pete, but had never watched it; still, I must confess it aroused some feelings of nostalgia. I have the theme song, “Hey Sandy”, stuck in my head. I read Motel of the Mysteries, which I now realize is a children’s book. I've rediscovered my love of programming/coding, something I haven't really done since I was in high school. I also got quite a bit of work done.

I would like to thank those of you I’ve been talking with: the last couple of months have showed me that I’m much less of an introvert than I thought—your continued contact has saved my sanity. I would also like to thank you for supporting me financially (u/starry_soda: I was exactly $0.63 short for my bill, before I remembered you, thank you). This is somewhat embarrassing: I am seeking about $80, for what will hopefully be either my last or penultimate chemo session on Monday. (My CashApp tag is $JackHF84; my Venmo tag is @JackHF84; I also use Zelle and will give my phone number in private messages.)

Incidentally, I met a doctor from my alma mater, although we took different paths there. If you are under 26, have some background in math or the natural sciences, are willing to learn in Spanish, and would like to attend medical school, please consider applying to the Latin American School of Medicine (Escuela Latinoamericana de Medicina). You’ll be given a mostly free medical education, I believe you’ll graduate from a six-year combined Bachelor’s and M.D. program; those of you from the US will take all parts of the USMLE, meaning you’ll be able to practice in the US. To the best of my knowledge, they still favor those from historically disadvantageous backgrounds. I’m not the best source of information, but feel free to message me if you have any questions and hopefully, I can point you in the right direction.

I had to have a minor procedure due to a complication with my chemotherapy port; I was released from the hospital earlier this morning. Unfortunately, this was a highly unexpected expense, and I won’t be paid until the 28th of this month. I am trying to raise some money, about $300, to cover the costs related to the rest of my scheduled medical appointments this month. My CashApp tag is $JackHF84; my Venmo tag is @JackHF84; I also use Zelle and will give my phone number in private messages. (I’m new to CashApp and Venmo, please forgive me if I err.) Thank you in advance.

Incidentally, if anyone knows of any jobs in the Chicago area in the service, restaurant, or retail industries, please let me know, as I will be seeking a second job, probably in the next few weeks. My scans and tests in the hospital were looking good, so I’ll probably be coming off chemo sooner rather than later. My current job is mostly remote and self-directed, so any shift or hours will probably workable for me.

EDIT: Some people have already donated. I don't know how to send messages on Venmo, but thank you and I'll respect your anonymity.

I know electoralism is unpopular here, I apologize in advance. Has any party, while campaigning for workers' votes, ever offered to tax unionized workers' wages preferentially; like an excise tax against non-union shops?

I noticed that you can’t deduct, as a business expense, any amount of money spent in furtherance of a crime. Why can't you change tax law so that only a quarter of non-union wages can be deducted from a business' taxable income? (Of course you could also define what a union is to prevent "straw unions", ostensibly controlled by capital.)

I’ve been on chemo for a few weeks now. I had an appointment yesterday; normally, I have about 24 hours after an appointment before I feel sick—not so this time.

To avoid crowds, I’ve been doing my laundry very early in the morning, usually about three or four o’clock. Aside from the attendant I was the only person in the laundromat. After the machine started, I went outside for a little walk and some fresh air.

So, there I was walking in the Far South Side of Chicago in the predawn hours of the morning with a big empty sac strapped to my back, as one does. I was doing nothing suspicious except for everything I was doing. I saw blue lights flash from behind and I went into the “my hands are visible and away from my pockets” position before turning around.

The younger of the two officers frisked me and decided to ask questions about my port. I’m not sure what kind of weapon would be under several layers of clothing and attached to my chest, but I assume the young officer’s fear was a good faith reaction. Less than a minute into his questioning—I’m not sure if it was nerves or I subconsciously willed myself to do it— without warning, I vomited all over the young cop. A bitter, bilious mixture of lentils, rice, and digestive juices spewed forth, arching in the air like a decorative fountain as I tried to point my head down and away. He was utterly covered: it was in his mouth, on his pants, dripping down his bulletproof vest—it was everywhere.

The older cop, who had been standing further back, piped up, “Aww, my wife had breast cancer. How ‘bout we drop you off, then I’ll take this one [pointing to the younger cop] to get hosed down.” He was being genuinely helpful; I mean that without any sarcasm— which was a contrast to his partner who seemed like a bit of a power tripping prick. Anyway, that’s how I puked on a cop without any consequences.

It was the morning my second day in the hospital: I was awoken well before dawn by the screams of my roommate calling for his nurse to bring him pain medication. My roommate had a history of opioid misuse/abuse; it was very difficult for his treatment team to find a safe dose of any medication that could relieve his pain for a significant amount of time. A series of nurses came in to explain that they couldn’t give him any medication until it had been prescribed by a doctor. A physician's assistant came in to evaluate his pain, then a hospitalist came to repeat the evaluation and write a prescription. The entire process took nearly 90 minutes.

My first urologist performed another bedside aspiration and irrigation procedure. Though I was anesthetized, the pain was such that I kept passing out: by the end of the procedure, I was begging to be sedated. I was told later in the day that I would probably need surgery, a Barry shunt, on Monday or Tuesday.

The rest of the day was very much a blur: I had periods of opioid-induced stupor punctuated by excruciating pain. I recall that my daytime nurse asked why I had been taking so many showers: being unable to find an alternative, I had developed a system of using our room’s shower as a makeshift urinal.

On Monday, I met the “weekday urologist” who was accompanied by a medical student. I had a third aspiration and irrigation procedure; the penile nerve block was performed differently and was more effective, leading to a much less painful procedure. At the end, the medical student was asked to get a sample of penile blood. I was bracing for the needle and not paying attention to where the medical student was about to put it. I felt a most amazing pain in the glans of my penis, my heart rate spiked, an alarm sounded, and I felt my entire body go limp as I passed out. I came to a short time later with terrific waves of pain radiating throughout my body and a frightened medical student looking down at me. I was scheduled for surgery on Tuesday morning.

I overheard that my roommate was unable to receive IV medications and would need a PICC line. The hospitalist offered him a variety of oral pain medications, all of which he refused/declined; with most of the drugs it was clear that he was declining them by name alone and seemed to be confusing them for other drugs, often of a different class. The conversation was becoming heated when I decided to insert myself. I tried to calm the situation by asking if he would be willing to try the generic name of a drug he had already been offered; thankfully, the other doctor realized what I was doing and wrote a prescription for the drug. I would like to say that I was helping to relieve the suffering of another human being, but in reality I just wanted a few hours of peace and quiet.

Later that morning, I was reminded that I was in a teaching hospital when it came time for rounds. By this time toxicology reports, laboratory results, and serological tests had come back and my case was deemed “interesting”; this sort of thing is fairly unusual in men my age and state of health. I was soon visited by a doctor and their team of interns and medical students, then another, and another. With every group I was asked: when did you last have sex, when did you last masturbate, do you use any drugs or supplements, what did your parents die of, what did your daughter die of, etc. Then, with exception to the hematology team, I was invariably asked if they could examine me.

The first team that visited helped to “preserve [my] modesty” by giving me what I can only describe as a dick pillow, that covered my lower abdomen and inner thighs while leaving my genitals, and only my genitals, completely exposed. Probably aided by the pain killers, I found myself marveling at the absurdity of the situation: instead of just uncovering when necessary, my penis and testicles were framed and highlighted like a conjoined secondary patient. I don’t recall this happening, but apparently after a dose of pain medication, I asked for some googly eyes in an attempt to surprise the next team—my request was denied. When the team did come in, I ended up doing a Señor Wences style dialogue with my penis during the examination. The staff were kind enough to pretend I had done nothing out of the ordinary; my roommate, however, filled me in on every cringey detail.

I had my first surgery on Tuesday. Due to an administrative error, I had been NPO for a little over 18 hours. I was unable to urinate that morning and, consequently, my surgery was moved forward a few hours. I had not urinated for between 8 and 12 hours. While under twilight sedation, a medical student or intern inserted a catheter and the last thing I remember was a feeling of relief and a panicked voice saying, “No, no, no. It’s overflowing.”

I woke up to find my penis still fully erect but now attached to my leg via a Foley catheter anchored to the same. As the sedation wore off, I recall being uncharacteristically worried about my foreskin being reduced post procedure, because I had heard horror stories about American clinicians mainly training with/for circumcised men. It’s in the procedure notes that I told the surgeon, “Don’t circumcise me, [yo or bro].”

I was still in a great deal of pain and the procedure had not been a success. From this point, I was kept well sedated except for brief periods where it was allowed to wear off so that I could provide informed consent or answer questions in a rational manner. That Thursday, I had a more radical procedure, which seems to have been successful.

My urologist came by to remove my newest Foley catheter and drop off some literature about penile implants. They were surprised that I was able to achieve an erection and frankly so was I after I watched a video of the procedure, which was far more radical than what I had pictured in my head. I was also surprised to learn that my shitty insurance will fully cover a top of the line penile implant, while I have to pay out of pocket for an ambulance ride between hospitals and a steep copay for chemotherapy drugs.

Back on my shit

Before my second surgery, I had some imaging done and they discovered a shadow, which turned out to be a tumor. Long story short, I have liver cancer again, though it’s of a different type from the first time. I had surgery a few days ago. The tumor was small and respectable—so good news. But, I’m going to be on another course of chemotherapy for a while.

Back to the Train

While I’m waiting to move into the apartment, I’ve returned to living on public transport. I’ve made a few innovations that have made things a bit more bearable than my earlier attempts.

I no longer allow myself to sleep at night. I achieve this by drinking copious amounts of coffee from the early evening throughout the night. I acquire it from the most unguarded of free sources such as: hotel lobbies, car dealership, and the like. Sadly, by the time I pilfer their coffee, most of the foodstuffs, such as digestive biscuits and breakfast cereals, have been polished off, so I’ve been rather hungry over the past few days. At times the hunger can be distracting, but that aspect seems to be diminishing with time. It seems that everyday I am becoming more and more a real life version of Dr. Zoidberg.

Instead of trying to stay awake for several days at a time, as I did in the beginning, I now sleep for one or two hours each day by taking a CTA bus with a long route and low ridership. The long route busses usually have built-in USB chargers, so I’m able to charge my phone while I sleep. The unpopularity of these routes creates a simulacrum of privacy; I’ve yet to wake up and find my things being or having been gone through. I’m constantly tired and I’m unable to think quickly or clearly at times. That having been said, the worst of my sleep deprivation symptoms, namely the realistic and relentless hallucinations, have been kept to a minimum. I’ve also noticed that I’m a bit less inhibited and risk-averse in this state.

I’ve been spending my nights on the train revising and refining my Spanish and Vietnamese language skills; skills which I regrettably allowed to lapse when I returned to the States.

My clothes are mostly freshly laundered. I’ve been using a sink to bathe—not exactly the hygienic equivalent of a shower, but better than nothing. An imam has allowed me to use his mosque’s foot bath to clean and re-dress my foot up to twice per day.

More Thorough Update About Mike

So, it turns out Mike had no real reason to be homeless. In addition to his government pension, he also had a sizable settlement from the incident that rendered him disabled. He had no knowledge of it until his new social worker informed him of it; it’s just been sitting in a trust for several years at this point. His old social worker, either through ignorance or negligence, never disclosed the existence of the settlement to Mike. Between his settlement, the interest it has earned while being untouched, and his pension, Mike will be able to live out his remaining years in the safety and comfort he deserves.

Thanks to one of you in particular, who I gather wishes to remain anonymous, I was able to put a deposit down on an apartment: thank you for all the big things you’ve done, but especially thank you for the small things that kept me going when I thought about giving up. I’d like to thank that person, everyone who donated to the GoFundMe, and those of you who helped me out in other ways; you will always have my sincere gratitude. I’ve had a few unpleasant moments over the past several months, but your support has made those moments infinitely more bearable than if I were to face them alone.

The Apartment

I emptied out my bank account and put a deposit down on an apartment. We did paperwork, scheduled a viewing after a deep cleaning, and arranged to have the utilities turned on.

The apartment is a partially furnished studio in the South Side. It’s on the small side, but not cramped considering it’s for a single occupant. The immediate area has a relatively low crime rate, particularly for a low-income area in the city. I should be able to move-in within the next 12 or so days.

Tutoring Again

I was offered another tutoring gig with the same student, for similar compensation, while I was trying to earn and gather money for the deposit. The position was still open after I had made the deposit; so, I took it. This time I was granted nicer budget hotel room but my meals were limited by a set dollar value.

This is the second half of my student’s differential equations course: where the first half focused on theory and technique, this half seems to focus on practical applications and technical refinement. Though our tutoring period was shorter than the first time, I believe he’ll do just fine on his exam.

He did do fine. He passed with a higher score than last time. He still does not want to be an engineer though.

Update on Mike

You might recall Mike: he was one of the first unhoused people I met; you helped him regain control of his money with a prepaid debit card that he could use to receive direct deposits. He has since rid himself of the debit card because he recently qualified for a proper bank account. He got his new ID card.

He’s moved into what I thought was a group home, but from his description sounds more like an assisted living facility. He has a private room and shared bathroom. They provide his physical therapy on-site and arrange travel to and from his medical appointments. They even have outings to theaters, shopping centers, and a swimming pool.

Overall, he says he’s the happiest he’s been in years; his only complaint being the shared bathroom.

Odds and Ends

This was just a short update; I’m probably going to rewrite or expand it in the near future—I just wanted to fill you in on what’s been going on. My foot is healing well. I haven’t been able to sleep recently. I’ve been a bit hungry, for above stated reasons—of course, those of you who’ve met me in real life know that I could stand to skip a few meals. I’ve switched back to looking for permanent employment; this was a practical decision because it’s been next to impossible to get to either temp agency, from where I’m presently based, before they’re exhausted for the day.

To Michael and Astro’s House

Michael and I began talking on this website. I gathered he was a bit of a gearhead. He offered to let me stay on his couch relatively early on. I had declined early on because I was suffering from a bout of insomnia and wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.

The night after I was robbed, for the second time, there was a big storm. There was rain, wind, and a little lightning. I was limping from an injury during the robbery, and I did not want to spend the night in the rain. Once you’re wet, there’s no getting dry for several hours; being soaked and trying to use the train with its overpowered air-conditioner is misery. I took the easy way out and asked if Michael’s offer was still open; he said yes and even offered to pick me up once I got closer.

Standing under the shelter, waiting for the train, the wind seemed to be blowing from all directions. I was wet, but I didn’t care because I knew that I’d be able change into something dry before the night was through.

On the train, I was shivering and simply couldn’t get warm. The train was going slower than usual, but the wind was shaking it from side to side. As we entered a tunnel, the lights went out and we came to a stop.

Having warmed up since the air-conditioner cut off, I noticed the people around me for the first time. Illuminated by phones, I saw fifteen to twenty drag queens. After a few minutes they began vamping, singing, and performing standup. I assume they were rehearsing their acts. Most of them were quite good, a very few leaned too heavily into cringe humor. On the whole, it was a pleasant way to spend an hour in the dark.

Meeting Michael

After another, much shorter delay, I arrived at the station where I was to meet Michael. He had practice and was volunteering with inmates earlier.

I was expecting a middle-aged car guy. However, I found Michael waiting near the rear of the station, a tall, good-looking young man. We made small talk as he drove to his apartment. He drove like he was in an urban race: cycling through gear, quick stops, hard down on the accelerator. I’ve only rode with him once, so I can’t say how much of this was how he usually drives and how much for my benefit. He told me the story of his first car crash. The only time he seemed shaken was when we shot past a cop; I felt Michael tap on his brakes, the cop wasn’t bothered enough to do anything.

As we drove into his neighborhood, I saw a fire hydrant that had been illicitly opened. I had seen this before in movies, but I didn’t know people actually did it. Michael said it was mostly kids trying to beat the heat. The fire hydrant wasn’t closed until the afternoon of the next day.

Meeting Astro

We arrived at Michael’s apartment a little after midnight and were greeted by his cat Astro. Astro is a large-eyed, black and white cat. He was not at all skittish; he came right up and headbutted me (in a friendly way).

According to Michael, Astro’s eyes are bigger than his stomach; from what I’ve seen, this is completely true. He likes to sit in one of his window perches and chirp or chatter at the rats he sees in the street. The rats are usually about half as big as Astro—they would make a fine feast or two. His hunting instinct does not extend to small prey as he refuses to go after flies and other insects that make their way into the apartment; he simply doesn’t think something so small is worth the effort.

House Rules and Order

Their apartment is clean and very well ordered; there’s no clutter and everything has its place. Even though he said it’s okay, I’m afraid to use anything in his kitchen because everything is so well organized, I think he could cook while blindfolded.

Michael, being a vegan, had only one rule, that being: should I cook meat, I would clean anything I had used. He did not wish to police what I was eating; he just didn’t want to deal with animal products.

Since I didn’t plan on being there during mealtimes, I endeavored to simply avoid animal products during my stay. I blew it almost immediately, when I used the generous bonus from my first temp job to buy French fries and coffee. I didn’t know that McDonald’s fries contain animal products. But I didn’t use any utensils to eat them and Michael didn’t seem to be upset.

Michael Points-out Segregation in Chicago

Michael is from Chicago; I’m not sure if he was born here, but he’s been here since he was a child. He’s had a lot more time than me to observe this city.

Chicago is almost laughably segregated. I hadn’t really noticed it until he pointed out. As you ride the Red Line between the Loop and its terminus, the skin tone of the riders gets darker and darker; ride in the opposite direction and the reverse is true.

There are unofficial ethnic enclaves dotted throughout the city’s various neighborhoods; this is even true of the suburbs, where various ethnic minorities seemed to have concentrated themselves in a limited number of towns. For instance: Schaumburg seems to have a comparatively large South Asian population whereas Cicero seems to have a larger Spanish speaking population. In city though, this segregation seems to go street-by-street or block-by-block: there is one example of strip mall with places meant to appeal to a mostly East Asian demographic and on the opposite side of the road are stores, almost mirrored one for one, meant to appeal to a Black clientele.

Michael’s Volunteer Work

Michael works with an organization that helps people who have been released from Cook County Jail; from what I understand most were released after being arraigned or having a bail hearing.

He has been helping a man named Ramón, pronounced “Raymond” for some reason. Originally from Colombia, Ramón is an elderly man suffering from some form of cognitive decline or clinically diagnosable dementia. He is/was effectively homeless after his release. Due to his dementia, he may have some difficulty complying with his conditions of release.

Michael has been helping him to attend doctor’s appointments, by facilitating communication with family members outside of Chicago, and by securing shelter space after his release. Michael was disgusted that a man of such declining faculties was released onto the streets instead of to some responsible party. Michael has gone above and beyond by connecting Ramón to a case worker and even trying to find out whether or not his medical condition had some bearing on his alleged offense.

Michael at Work

I’m not exactly sure what Michael does, but he works mostly from home doing computer stuff. I don’t think he likes the company he works for (for ethical reasons), but he does seem to like the work, at the very least he finds it interesting.

One day he worked for about 6 hours straight, had a meal, the worked a further 6 hours; the entire time he was tapping and clicking away at his computer.

He seems to be even more enthusiastic about his hobbies. He either spends hours or has some sort of alert system in order to find parts, accessories, and tools for his car. He can perform repairs that would typically require a professional in his spare time. Sometimes he’ll forget to eat or work into the early hours of the morning.

Update on My Situation

I had been limping recently due to an injury from the robbery; I further injured the same foot through a series of other screw ups, which led to the development of several small blisters. Unbeknownst to me, one of these blisters became infected. Unfortunately, I did not realize this until it was too late as my foot was already sore and my sense of smell has been substandard since I started chemo. In any event I ended up excising some of the flesh from my foot. After making the first cut, I could easily smell it. I’m surprised Michael didn’t say anything, I think he was being too polite; the smell of necrotic flesh is distinct and unpleasant.

I had to attend another series of courses to maintain my status within the program—I’m mostly hedging my bets in case the other thing falls through. I also go to the center to look for temp jobs; I’ve found out that sometimes I can manage to get two fairly simple data entry-type jobs in one day if I’m registered with more than one temp agency. The only downside to this place is that the dispatcher likes to watch old Fox animated shows: King of the Hill, The Simpsons, and Family Guy; sometimes she watches a new one called Bob’s Burgers; on Fridays she watches Ancient Aliens. My gripe isn’t her choice of programs, it’s the volume; she’s not hard of hearing but she sets the television to its beverage-rippling maximum, I believe in an attempt to let the entire building in on the fun.

I’ve kept up my illicit doctoring, which I should be able to do until their regular guy gets back from vacation on Friday. Things have been fairly tranquil, so I haven’t been getting the number of callouts that I had estimated. Between my temp work and this, I’ve managed to earn about $1800; this means I’m about $850 from securing an apartment.

I want to thank you all for everything you’ve been doing for me: for helping out, for donating, for reading. It really does mean much more than I’m capable of putting into words.

I normally write when I can’t sleep. Recently I’ve been fairly busy and sleeping most nights, so I haven’t been writing. For that, I apologize. In no particular order, here’s what’s been going on over the past few days.

I May Have Found a Place

I’ve tacitly found a place. It’s on the South Side of Chicago, near public transport stops, and the rent is affordable. The downside is that because I have no credit (I’ve never rented anything, taken out a loan, purchased my own insurance, or even had a credit card) my initial deposit is unusually high, on the order of several thousand dollars. Between your donations, some of you directly and many of you through the GoFundMe, and my various odd jobs, I have nearly enough to cover the deposit.

Odd Jobs

I’ve stopped devoting all my time to seeking a permanent job and have begun doing temp work.

My first temporary job was a data entry gig. It was scheduled to last three days; I wrote some scripts that allowed me to finish in one day. Instead of being brought back for the last two days, I was paid for one day of work (about $60) and given a $10 McDonald’s gift card to thank me for finishing early. My second job played out much the same way, except there was no gift card.

My third, and current, temp job is the same except this time I’m deliberately going slow to earn a bigger paycheck.

Michael and Astro

I met Michael on this website. He offered to allow me to use his couch for a while. On a very rainy, windy night I took advantage of his offer. After a long power outage on the Blue Line, I met Michael and his cat Astro early on a dark and stormy morning.

I’m going to write more about Michael and his very friendly cat Astro in my next post, because this one would probably be well over three-thousand words if I didn’t. But I’d still like to thank them here.

We Have Become a ~~Grandmother~~ Crime Doctor

I met one of you, through this site, who connected me with a friend of his. Said friend gave/lent/traded me some money for a favor to be performed at a later date.

That date came and I was asked to tend to the wound of someone who was injured while doing something I knew better than to ask about. I arrived at the address I had been given and was greeted quite warmly; from there I was shown to a “clinic” that had been set up in a back room. I was shocked at how well stocked the place was: it had every manner of suture, an ECG, a vitals monitor, an AED, a nice portable ultrasound, an autoclave, a wide variety of surgical tools each in its own sterilized packaging, diagnostic equipment, infusion pumps, a ventilator, et cetera…there was even an IO drill. The drug locker was equally well stocked with hundreds of medicines in pills, suppositories, creams, ampules, and vials.

The patient was a large man with a severe though non-life-threatening injury. I worked on him for about an hour. I’ve been back several times to check on him, I think he should make a full recovery with no lasting harm and only minimal scarring.

I was called back a few days later. The new patient had a deep cut to his forearm. I assumed it was crime related, but on a follow-up visit I learned he had been trying to juggle knives. He too will make a complete recovery with minimal scarring—if he stops picking at his stitches.

I never wanted to go into medicine, and I certainly didn’t want to practice in the U.S., but needs must when the devil drives.

I Got Robbed, Again

I was robbed again. They roughed me up a little this time and made off with my phone and about $120 I was on my way to deposit. My phone was still insured and I got a new one the next day. The cash is gone forever.

Evgeni

While waiting for a bus back from the suburbs, I saw an older man; he was 70 if he was a day. He struggled putting his bicycle on the front of the bus. Once he was done, a younger woman handed him a crate she had been carrying and gave him a small hug. He wedged his backpack and crate into a seat on the opposite side of the aisle from me then he laid out the contents of his pockets on the seats of the back row. Short, toothless, and shabbily dressed, he tried to get off the bus for a cigarette before immediately getting back on followed by the bus driver. He laid down across the back row and quickly fell asleep.

The bus took a sharp turn, and his crate flew into me: a large Bialetti coffee maker crashed into my leg before falling to the floor. “Oh, I can’t see; you have to look for me. Is it dented? Does it still screw together?” he asked in a thick Russian accent. The coffee pot was in good order.

He introduced himself as Evgeni and we began to talk. He works in facilities maintenance for one of the local colleges. “I work there since I first got here. I been doing the same job for 25 years.”

He explained that at this time of year, he’s expected to clean out dorm rooms and get them ready for the fall semester. “Everybody I work with loves me. For my birthday they take up a collection and they give me twenty-two hundred dollars—everybody loves to work with Evgeni. You know why?”

He looked at me as if he expected an answer to his rhetorical question. Just as I opened my mouth to answer in the negative, he jumped back in, “Because I show up two hours early and leave an hour late every day, and I don’t ask to be paid for it. They get that time for free.” I asked him if he wouldn’t be happier getting paid for that time.
“No,” was his response. “I seen so many people get let go after a semester or two because all they want to do is complain. Not me. I go with the flow; I do what I’m told and then some. And for twenty-five years they keep me on.”

“And you’re happy doing that?” I asked.

“Yes! Of course,” he said with a wry little smirk. “Always I am happy. Do you know why?” He paused, waiting for me to answer this new rhetorical question. “Because I have the secret to happiness,” followed by another brief pause, “Do you want to know my secret?”

Doubtful that he could but intrigued that he might tell me, I answered in the affirmative. He leaned over to me and spoke in a slow whisper: “I rob them all blind.” The little old man sprung back and let loose in a loud burst of laughter.

“I haven’t bought groceries in twenty years. Oh one of these apples is bruised—the entire bag must go…home with Evgeni. Potatoes, flour, beef—I get it all when I clean the kitchens.” He took out his phone and showed me a photo of him standing next to a television of nearly the same height. “The university said ‘It’s broken, [I] can have it,’ they didn’t need to know I just pulled a couple of fuses.” He opened a black garbage bag in his crate to reveal what looked to a nearly brand-new woolen Hudson’s Bay Point Blanket. “The student, she says, ‘You must take, if you don’t I’ll just have to throw it away, I have no room to pack it.’ And so I take it,” he gave a small wink, “reluctantly.”

As we pulled into the station, the now spry Evgeni retrieved his bike from the front of the bus, tied his crate to its fender, and rode off into the night.

I am happy to announce that I have a job. It will last only until after the Independence Day holiday, but may come with a valid reference for future employment.

I have been hired to tutor a college student who is taking a condensed course differential equations. His mother intends for him to become an engineer, in her words, “of any sort". While I have found him to be a generally bright and insightful young man, when it comes to mathematics, he is, frankly, thick as pig shit. We spent the entire first day of my employment reviewing basic calculus; I spent the entire second day re-teaching him the basics of multivariable calculus; and the third covering more advanced techniques before finally touching upon differential equations. This was despite his mother, backed up by a well worn collection of textbooks, utter insistence that he had, “a very good understanding of calculus”. If his retention over the past few days is anything to go by, then I do believe he may just barely pass his course, especially as I have been given the assurance of his mother that these abbreviated summer courses are “always" graded on a heavy curve. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he wants to pass and I know he doesn’t want to be an engineer.

The best part is that I am being compensated in something other than experience and a good recommendation: for the extent of my tutoring period I have been given the cheapest hotel room in the area (I’ve honestly checked, out of pure curiosity) and two free meals per day at any of his mother’s many restaurant franchises throughout the area.

Getting to the hotel was a bit of a task. I first had to walk several blocks from the library where I had agreed to conduct the lessons to the nearest stop of The L. I then took that train to the Loop, transferred to the Blue Line, and rode to its penultimate stop. There I waited, and waited, and continued to wait for a further 38 minutes for an uncomfortably cold bus and its surly driver. (I have come to suspect that this obscure route is a sort of punishment for CTA drivers.) After 63 stops, my fingers, somehow both numb and in pain, were just able to signal for a stop. Then, after walking for about half a mile, I had finally reached the hotel. In either direction, my commute now takes between 2 and 3 hours with the lower end being favored.

Given my experience with cheap hotels, even I was surprised by this place. There was an ambulance outside with someone being treated with an oxygen cylinder. Upon entering, I was greeted by the sweet scent of acetone. I normally don’t find acetone that obnoxious but this gave me a headache after just a few minutes of exposure; the desk clerk, I would later find out, was being tended to in the ambulance outside for difficulty breathing. Someone must have used or spilled a large amount of the chemical just prior to my arrival.

My first room had the overwhelmingly strong smell of an ammonia like chemical—I would say cat urine, but in a place like this, we all know it wasn’t cat urine. My second room had a similar but less strong smell; it also featured a variety of used needles tucked into places where used needles wouldn’t typically be found. The hotel manager made me show him my second room before granting me a third.

The third room featured a great number and variety of insects. Instead of being given a fourth room, I was told to drop my stuff at the front desk and return in several hours whereupon I would find my room ready, having undergone fumigation.

A few hours later, I returned to find littered with scores, if not hundreds, of tiny corpses. It still smelled slightly of the fumigation chemical. There was a gap between the door and the floor of about one and a half inches in height. The arms of the “husband chair" / cuckold’s throne were covered in cigarette burns. The shower did not drain properly so that after 10 minutes, I found myself standing in calf-deep water. Still, the bed was comfortable, the air conditioner worked beautifully, and I had a recently unknown degree of privacy when I placed the spare pillows and my bag against the door. I figured that this room, as it now was, was probably the best I could hope to get. I fell asleep before the sun had set.

I woke up to a headache and a rash on those parts of my body which had been directly exposed to the bed’s sheets. I laundered them myself before hanging the “do not disturb” sign and leaving to tutor. I spent much of the day itching and rest of it drowsy due to a high dose of certain, popular, over-the-counter antihistamine. Due to the side effects of the drug: no matter how many times I did urinate, I still felt as though I had to; my eyes were painfully dry; and I found even ordinary lighting to be painfully bright.

Back at the hotel, I found that my do-not-disturb sign had been ignored. I thought about spending the night fully clothed but the bed had merely been made with the linens left unchanged, as too were the bin liners and towels. I went to bed.

I recalled a time early in my former career, when I had just been granted a license to practice independently: I had been invited to the home of one my professors, an elderly Finnish man who had fled due to his political leanings. Elderly is a bit of an understatement—dirt was a relatively new invention when he was born.

The visit, like all visits to his house, involved coffee and a trip to his sauna—tropical climate be damned. In the sauna, he handed me my coffee, sat his down, and climbed in—all of this done naked as the day he was born. As he climbed in, I saw a tiny bit of liquid shit, more than a drop but less than a stream, fall from him into and slightly around his coffee.

Before I said anything (NB: not before I could have said anything, merely before I had said anything), he had drunk his entire cup of coffee in a single gulp. I found this surprising as coffee, at least at the time, was a rationed product and I thought he would have liked to savor it a bit more. Instead of saying anything, I sat there like Bartleby, preferring not to act: I am unsure of whether I was uncaring, unwilling, or incapable of acting.

I do know that I was thinking about the implications of any decision. If I had said something, then his leaky anus would have been forever in the background of our relationship; saying nothing, I allowed my friend to eat shit. There is the possibility that he could have rejected my warning and drank the cup anyway. What if he drank the cup but discovered the splatter sometime later? I am uncertain as to how it compares to being lustful and stealing pears, but I’ve always felt guilty about it. I believe the hotel room may be cosmic punishment for my inaction.

In the mornings there are a few new insects that show up to feast upon the bodies of their fallen comrades. When I return by the evenings, they too have died.

In compensation for the state of the hotel, of which I seem to be one of but a few guests despite there being three floors of at least fifty rooms each, I have endeavored to have the most expensive meals imaginable while keeping within the scope of our agreement. For my first spite meal, I had a noodle dish with such a variety of add-ons that it had become almost entirely inedible, but nonetheless very expensive. Soon, I realized that it would be more effective to order “family style" menu items—these are single menu items meant to feed several people. The most expensive of these family-style items has been just about three-figures before tax and tip. I am not the first to have been compensated in such as at least one shift-leader referred to my order as the “tutor special".

I found out today that I am officially cancer-free; so, I am just elated. I've had 11 job interviews this week.

I want to thank all of you who shared words of encouragement.

To those of you who donated to the GoFundMe: I want give you a special thanks. I didn't want to ask for money because I didn't think I'd need it. But with everything you raised, I was able to get some interview clothes from the Goodwill and Ventra card for the CTA. Basically if I get any offers in the next week or so, it's complete down to you.

For context: whenever I would travel for work, my daughter would surreptitiously place one of her stuffed animals in my luggage so I "wouldn't get lonely". When I came here for treatment, I took some of them with me because, well, hospitals are pretty bleak, especially when you know you're going to be there for a while. A few months after my dad died, his lawyer sent a big box of old photos, yearbooks, and my parents' funerary flags to my hospital room. And so, without u/corgiwithalaptop I probably would have lost every photo from my childhood, every photo of my parents in their youth, and the reminders of what an awesome little girl I was lucky enough to help raise. I don’t even have words to express how thankful I am to them.

I just want to say thanks for this community and thanks to all of you.

I moved to the Chicago area several months ago to seek medical treatment. While the treatment was successful, I spent those months hopping between the hospital and various rehabilitation facilities; I also managed to deplete virtually all of my life's savings. I never really planted roots here and thus I don't really know anyone in the area. I'm an only child, both of my parents are dead, as are my wife and daughter; so I don't really have any family.

Cutting to the point: I have a large suitcase full of family photos, some of my daughter's toys, and various other keepsakes. It's too big for a shelter or transitional housing. I'm looking for someone to look after this suitcase while I sort out my housing and employment situations.

Thank you.

EDIT: At the suggestion of u/HeyDarnold, I've created a GoFundMe. I've kind of resigned myself to my situation so fundraising is only of secondary importance to me. I would be thankful for any donations at https://www.gofundme.com/f/me-find-a-place-to-live-and-steady-employment?utm_source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_campaign=p_cf+share-flow-1