kvetching up

  This picture of me lying in my hospital bed proves that home may not necessarily be where the heart is. I was released a couple of days after this picture was taken. I had just been moved to a room on the gurney I am lying on and awaiting transfer to a hospital bed. I was there at UW Hospital longer than usual because an artery had accidentally been nicked by the surgeon when they were either sticking a balloon in my artery or one of a constellation of stents, and the medical team feared I might bleed out. I was so high on Versed and morphine that I feared nothing. Of that, I am grateful.  I was kept pretty tranqued when I was admitted at Harborview, and my memory is that my tranquility was maintained via a PICC line attached and inserted into my arm. The wildest part of the stay is the food they offered on the menu wasn't what would be called heart healthy or heart smart. Repeat business must be good.

On pleasant spring evenings, I have taken to reading outside on the front patio. As I do on such occasions-- weather allowing--I took my book and curled up in the plastic Adirondack chair last night, excited to read Wm. Gibson. His writing is pithy, his sentences carefully structured. It requires more concentration than reading a Stephen King novel, but less than the typical Philip Roth joint.  For my next trick, I'll need a volunteer. The last few weeks, each time I sit, within a couple of minutes the Adirondack chair shifts a bit, which I presumed was it settling. It feels as if the legs are spreading a couple of inches. The movement has been--or so I thought--no cause for concern--it always stopped after the initial brief shift. It had become so regular, so routine, I didn't pay much notice to it last night when a couple of minutes after sitting down, the chair began to shift. I imagine this was the attitude Harry Truman had when he felt the earth rumble just before t...

Entry 1    8:58 a.m  I am deeply depressed. I am not returning calls, not doing the greatest. My kids don't know, I don't think. My therapist has no idea. I don't think grief adequately describes the place where I am. I have lost interest in absolutely everything. I only move when forced. Yesterday was Abby's family birthday celebration, so I got my shit together and made sure it was everything she would hope it would be. I hung streamers, prepared lunch, had family around. It was fine. As soon as everyone left, I shut back down, too tired to even think right, so tired I went to sleep at a decent hour. Oh, yeah, I haven't been sleeping. I am not doing well.  Please know, if you are calling or texting and I haven't responded, I have seen them, I am just curled up inside myself right now, and am trying hard to climb back out.  By the way, I am not anywhere close to a place where I may be contemplating suicide. I have kids, I would NEVER leave them willingly. ...

 Entry 1 9:22 p.m. W hat a long day of troubles.  It was a day of upset and good news. Like Yin and Yang or the spread of the omicron virus and extending work from home for several more months.   First, my friend in Wisconsin had zero margins after her procedure. This means her cancer is gone. They got all of it. Her kids can stop worrying. Her friends can breathe a sigh of relief. Also, fuck cancer. It's the best news I have heard in a long time, and it truly made my morning. Great way to start the day.  It didn't get better, although, in fairness, it is hard to imagine how it could, other things being equal. I woke Jenny at 10. Feeling horrible, her bowl of applesauce from last night, sitting in the bed barely touched, the bowl miraculously not upset while she slept.  She looked dehydrated, defeated, disappointed, haggard, worn, spent. Its that look you get when it's 3 a.m. and you've been driving down a strange highway since the bartender kicked you out ...

He said, " Let me break it to you, son" Your shit's fucked up. " I said, "My shit's fucked up?" Well, I don't see how-" He said, "The shit that used to work- It won't work now." --Warren Zevon A Neurologist Walks into a Bar The neurologist called today, early, as it turns out.  Two hours early.  I do love how COVID-19 has changed everything.  I'm used to an appointment starting about 30 minutes before the doctor actually shows up.  This is a follow up appt., after I visited urgent care two weeks ago, and my PCP some days later, to try to solve the dizziness crisis.  I should mention here, the dizziness and attendant nausea, while not completely abated, has signficantly--like 95 percent improved.  The tinnitus rages on. So proud my tinnitus, my own progeny, never lets anything stop him.   "Did they talk to you about your vestibulary arteries at Urgent Care?" the doctor asks me.  I tell her no.  She asks if I know what...

That amazing grace Thought it passed you by You wake up every day, and you start to cry You want to die But you just can't quit   The little bastard in yellow is causing the problem. I have been journaling off and on on blogger since before Leiney was born. Until December or January, I never went back and looked at postings.  Even now, I do so sparingly.  Today, reviewing a post from February 2008, I learned that the research I have been doing on Jenny's cancer is the same behavior I engaged in when my mother had ovarian cancer.  Attendant with that research is my tendency to latch on to the worst case scenarios. To be clear, Jenny has stage IVb pancreas cancer.  That means it has spread outside of the pancreas to distant organs.  It's on her liver.  She has a 5% chance of surviving 5 years after diagnosis.  She was sick in October of 2019.  It became unbearable in late May of 2020, when she lost 25 lbs. in a month.  I had been asking he...