If Mojo ran the hospital, things would be very different.
First of all, there would be no waiting rooms.
Just soft beds, heated blankets, and a silent understanding that if you’re late, it’s because you needed to rest—and that’s okay.
He’d sniff out any bad vibes the moment you walked in.
If a doctor came in rushing, not listening, or looking at a chart more than me?
Immediate side-eye. Denied entry. Tail flick of disapproval.
Treatment plans would be personalized.
Mojo would sit in on appointments and bark every time someone used confusing medical jargon.
He’d make sure I was offered snacks and dignity.
Also: belly rubs for every successful blood draw. That’s just policy.
Appointments wouldn’t end with “see you in three weeks.”
They’d end with:
- “You did amazing today.”
- “Let’s talk about what you need.”
- And probably a squishy toy or treat (for both of us, honestly).
The chemo chair? Covered in fleece.
The gown? Optional. Pajamas encouraged.
Mood lighting? Always.
Oh—and Mojo would enforce a strict no-toxicity policy.
That includes toxic positivity, by the way.
No “at leasts.”
No “everything happens for a reason.”
Just real talk and good snacks.
I think about this sometimes, when I’m stuck in another sterile room, answering the same five questions for the fifth time that week.
If Mojo was in charge,
I’d still be sick.
But I’d never feel unseen.
-Mojo & Izzy
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