year of the dragon

No, it's the Year of the Ox, according to the Chinese lunar calendar.  But in researching what this means, I discovered I was born in the Year of the Dragon, and have been confidently breathing fire ever since.  This is "the" sign of power, high self-esteem, and overall superiority.  Of course, I've known this for years, but confirmation feels good.

We are what we think.  Simple.  And if we really put some time into this, we recognize that what we think is equally not who we are.

Which leads me to the Crisis of the Day.  Rich saw his acupuncturist today, and she is concerned about his retaining of fluids, most noticeable in his feet, right hand, and face.  A rash is developing, too.  So he has an appointment with his primary care physician on Monday, although Rich is concerned enough that he might seek treatment (if needed) sooner.

But we still had to eat.  Off to Ithaca Bakery, our favorite local spot, for soups and breads, muffins and coffees.

"I used to be healthy," Rich says, sadly.

Rich was born in the Year of the Rabbit, and they're known to be cautious types  who assess carefully before they jump. So Rich, with his meticulous plots providing plenty of supporting evidence, knows he isn't where he wants to be, and I am tempted to summon my fire -- whoosh! -- and destroy his discouraging data screaming you're sick!

Sigh.  I'm not a real dragon.

Candace

 

drip, drip

One of Rich's stitches is leaking.  Not all the time; mostly in the morning.  Still, for the neurosurgeon this is a cause of worry about infection and meningitis.  Let me have a look at it, he says.  Maybe we'll need a lumbar drain.

Interpreted:  Does he think we call a taxi and arrive at his door in, oh, about an hour?  Is there no local physician capable of monitoring this?  And a lumbar drain means another stretch of a hospital stay.

Rest, that's all I want.  In my bed, and from hospitals, mysterious drips, collateral damage, radiation, and continued poisoning of Rich's body.

Interpreted:  I don't hear a choice.

Some good news.  Yesterday I found the missing mobile phone antenna.  I had, after all, the awareness to stuff it in Rich's attache, thinking he might know what it is.  Now if was only awake enough to remember that I remembered...

Candace

a balkan invasion

We're halfway home.  Rich was sprung from the hospital today, with no leaky spinal fluid and no pneumonia and bagfuls of pills.  Tonight we stay in New York, and home tomorrow.

For the last three nights, Rich's room was busy with visitors -- dozens -- speaking Serbo-Croation and Albanian, attending to a family patriarch with last-stage brain cancer.  First day, this was an annoyance; ear plugs helped cut down the noise coming Rich's way.  

"We have a big family," a daughter apologized (the patriarch has ten children, plus other relatives I could not identify).

Second day, annoyance slowly gave way to amazement.  At the outpouring of family love, at the cheek-to-cheek kisses for all, at the care of wife and a son who stayed overnight.

Today, saying good-bye, we wished the wife all the best in a situation that, she knew, would not get better.

"What a wonderful family you have," I said.

Her English was a bit limited, but she understood.

"Your family?" she asked.

"We have none."

"You?  Husband?  None?" she asked, comprehending the words but not the possibility.

And I was drawn to her with a kiss on one cheek, then another.

People with large families, I've noticed, often easily assume others into their midst.  What's one more?

She asked for my phone number.  We kissed again.

All invasions kill.  But sometimes the right things are destroyed.

Candace

pneumonia?

A day that started better, much better.  But not where it's ending.

Rich is removed from IV's, is sitting up, eager to shave, bright-eyed and adorable; almost back to his usual self.  He is told he can be discharged on Monday.

By mid-afternoon, he is moved from neurological unit to semi-private room where it should be quieter.

Hah.

A non-stop party, loud and smoke-filled, goes on and on.  Even after I leave, post-visiting hours,  Rich calls me (sans antenna, but not too garbled) and moans that visitors remain, and room has been disinfected for smokiness.  And more bad news:  His oxygen levels, slowly dropping, have dropped further.  Pneumonia is suspected, but we won't know more until tomorrow.

Candace

one note

A bitch of a day.

Beginning with breakfast at the Pom Pom Diner.  Another Miracle House resident, from Alabama, chats express non-stop about Southern warmth and her church choir while I inhale my mozzarella omelette.  I'm food and sleep deprived and I remember my father's words to me, before his death twenty years ago:  Don't waste yourself on idiots.

Then, arriving at the hospital.  Rich is sitting upright, in a chair -- good! first time since surgery -- but he's frustrated and in pain because OT and PT have worked him over and told him he might never again be able to lift himself and he believes this crap.

He tries to sleep.  No go; chatter from the nurse's station sounds like we're in Times Square despite signs posted everywhere:  "Quiet Helps our Patients Heal."

So shut the fuck up.

I don't say this.  Not to the people whose care he needs.

I try to make some phone calls.  To extend my stay at Miracle House because Rich doesn't think he will be ready to leave by Tuesday.  But phone is not working well...no surprise, really; I discover the antenna is missing.  So that was what I found in my pocket and threw out two days ago...who would have known?

I make food forays, eating randomly with emphasis on sugar and caffeine and some vegetables from the hospital cafeteria.

Rich tries to sleep.  Blood pressure bounces from too low to too high.  Drain from spine hemorrhages.  I do this, do that, and Rich is angry and frustrated at and wonders why I keep screwing up.

He's not an idiot.  I'm not an idiot.  But he's not good at being sick and I'm not good at caring.

As the afternoon spirals down, I make a final sugar excursion to the gift shop.  

An oat scone, please, I ask.  

Two are put in a bag.

Another idiot, I think; I'm not paying for two!

This is free, she says.  You need it.

One note.  That's all it took to lift away some of the pain.

Not for long.

It's a cold night in New York.  A nice warm room, a cup of hot tea...ah...

Sign in elevator as I ascend to the apartment:  No heat.  No hot water.  Management is working on this.

But I'm finishing my tea.  I have a nice warm comforter.  I can't call Rich because we have only one functioning phone and who knows what's next, but I hope to sleep and I hope Rich gets moved out of the neurological unit and I hope not to waste time with idiots such as myself.

Candace

train not running

Last time, New York was aglow.  But Rich's surgery was a week before the holiday season, and everywhere there was the excitement of something better coming, even if we know that such excitement folds and collapses.

Still. I expected something different.

Last time, Rich and I walked through Grand Central Terminal where we saw the train show and I pointed out, look! there's the QT train from the '70s, raw and fresh in sound and appearance.

Last time, we walked to Bryant Park, taking in the holiday kiosks selling pet T-shirts and happy Buddhas, and the skating rink where people did what I never could -- smiling, too.

That was last time.

This time, Rich rested in the room while I went to the train show, but -- where was my QT?  Not running.  Which, in truth, is closer to reality.  In the '70s, much of New York wasn't functioning.  But who wants to remember that?

This time, the kiosks were gone, holiday sales over, Buddhas moving on to the Chinese New Year festivities.  Some skaters still circled cooly, but many reminded me of my own gravity-susceptible attempts.

I returned to the room.  It wasn't the same, I say.

Change is inevitable, exciting, normal.  Except when the trains stop running.

Candace

 

vacation

From England, a letter received from a friend of many years:  Remember the Christmas you were with us? If we could only turn back the clock!

I do remember that Christmas, of roasted meats and trifles, of walks along the Thames, and her family's gift to us, a gorgeous coffee (tea?) table book titled "English Landscapes."  To remind us, she said, of what Rich and I loved best about the countryside.

But, like all memories, the book was what the photographer wanted the countryside to be, and what we wanted to remember.  In the forward, the photographer was honest.  Exquisite views of  lakes and fens and architectural triumphs were carefully composed, devoid of imposed blight (even the palaces and churches appeared organically grown).  

This was a world without humans, or at least of the post-Neanderthal sort.

Still. It was real.

We have had ten full days home and are now on the road again for Surgery: Round Four.  It was like a vacation, Rich said.  We walked, tied up some financial matters, ate hot meals with candlelight and good wine, and even squeezed in a wonderful New Year's Day party, joined by neighbors and ex-neighbors, and friends.

Perhaps we are looking at a place that exists only in our mind, but that doesn't matter.  It's still real.

A wonderful new year to all -- 

Candace