WELCOME TO THE INFUSION CENTER FOLLIES

Beep. Squeak. Cough. Repeat.

My MG treatment comes with free snacks, a harpoon‑wielding nurse, and a soundtrack no human asked for

— Written with heart, humor and a stubborn refusal to stay silent —

Such a view. I’d rather be at the beach. Photo by the author, whose shoes are the highlight of the shot.

I’m back at the University of Kansas Infusion Center. It’s in Missouri. Don’t ask.

It’s time for my every-eight-week dose of Magic Medicine, the elixir that helps fight Myasthenia Gravis. It’s MG Month, so I figured I might as well do my part by writing about it.

This thing I have is rare — only about 70,000 Americans are lucky enough to claim it. For context: Every one of us could fit into Arrowhead Stadium, with room to spare.

It’s an autoimmune disease that blocks the connection between nerves and muscles. That leads to everything from drooping eyelids to issues with breathing, walking and talking, to brain fog and a lot more. At its worst, it could do you in; at its next-to-worst it’ll send you to the hospital. At its regular worst, you’re never far from it.

MG doesn’t kill you outright. It just keeps trying to negotiate the terms.

Thankfully, the meds keep me functioning, though, to be candid, things were getting a bit rough the last week or so. I felt like a lawnmower sputtering on its last whiff of gas.

Which is actually a pretty good comparison. I’m filling my tank as I write this.

The Infusion Center is a nice facility, filled with little cubes for patients. I’m in №35 right now, resting in a cushy recliner. I have a lovely view of a wall with pictures of Yuccas, a couple of monitor machines and a bookshelf with flyers about all sorts of medicines I can’t pronounce. And a little clock that just changed to 8:16 a.m.

Now it says 8:29. How time flies when you’re having fun.

You’d like it here. The nurses are all nice and they give you free snacks. They smile a lot and seem to enjoy sticking needles in people. Mine could get a second job on a whaler. She’d be dandy with a harpoon.

It’s not a great place to rest, however.

Beep. Beep. BEEP. Beep. Beep BEEP.

I called my nurse.

“There’s a lot of beeping going on,” I told her, looking for some quick quiet.

“I know,” she said. “The machine’s acting up so early in the morning.”

It is early. And it is beeping. I guess she’s right.

“If you hear mooing, it’s just our new IV pump.”

There it goes again.

Beep. Beep. BEEP.

I have a half mind to yank its cord right out of the socket. Wouldn’t do any good. There’s a battery dedicated to ensuring the damn thing howls no matter what.

WTH? I now hear a squeaky toy coming from somewhere in the direction of Station 14. Who brings a squeaky toy to an infusion?

I called my nurse.

“There’s a lot of squeaking going on,” I told her.

“At least I got the beeping to stop.”

Always so helpful. But then I remembered, she’s the one with the harpoon. I thought it best to keep my mouth closed and my backside protected.

Great. Now someone’s coughing like he swallowed a mackerel.

The actual infusion only takes about half an hour. I just finished that. How do I know how long? The clock says 8:45. Plus, the nurse with the needle told me so.

I now get 20 minutes of saline flush: saltwater running through my veins because we all could use a little more salt water. Makes me feel like I’m back at the ocean. Or in it.

There goes that squeaking again.

I called the nurse.

“Can I borrow your needle? I’ll be right back.”

I’m not sure I liked her response.

After the salt finishes pickling me, the real fun begins. I get to sit here for an hour while they stand around and ensure I don’t go into spastic overdrive. I’ve never even sneezed after one of these, but protocol is protocol.

The respite does give me time to contemplate a local oddity.

I have this little can of apple juice they gave me. It sits on the side table, minding its business. Yet every few moments it decides to start sliding like a curling stone on a Canadian lake. No one’s touching it. Nothing is encouraging it along its way. Not even a guy with a broom.

One minute it’s steady, the next, it’s skating happily. It’s happened two or three times already.

Only thing I can think of is it’s that infernal beeping and squeaking. Mr. Can is as tired of it all as I am. Its bid for peaceful freedom is brief, but, by God, I sure can’t blame it. I’d slide out of here, too, if I could.

Ooh. Now the beeping and the squeaking are having a conversation.

Beep squeak. Squeak beep.

I called my nurse.

“I’ll be right there. As soon as I put my squeaky toy back in my pocket.”

If she pulls out a rubber chicken next, I’m demanding a transfer. Somewhere quiet. Like a construction site.

Next up: The Ladybug That Lied

[embed]The Ladybug That Lied I thought I’d found a tiny good‑luck charm. Turns out it was a busted‑wing bloodsucker with an attitude problem.medium.com

If you enjoy domestic espionage, Midwestern captivity or the ongoing saga of a man trying to stay upright in a world that refuses to cooperate, follow me. I write daily dispatches from the front lines of ordinary absurdity.