a quickie life

I planned to fill this blog with all the good stuff on our two-day sojourn in New York, as well as some of the amusing "bad karma" events.  I will keep some, and add what I hoped I wouldn't.

First, the funny "something is wrong here..."  

The waitress at our favorite bistro approaches us with a bottle of water and two glasses: the glass, for no apparent reason, falls to the floor and shatters.

"Ce va?" asks another patron, watching this.

What to answer?

Then, Rich gets a plateful of what he didn't order.  The waitress corrects her mistake, and we carry on.

Our room for the night is causing us watery eyes and burning throat.  Toxic cleaning fluids, I guess; the desk clerk offers to send a housekeeper to spray a more pleasant odor.

"But that's just more poison," I say.

We get another room, slightly more breathable (probably already sprayed).

During the night, I feel my way in the dark to the closet for a blanket.  My toes crash into our duffle bag; not too hard, but hard enough to rip a toenail in half.  No matter, it's not bleeding.

Ce va?

Good stuff:  Walking up and down Manhattan with Rich, even though he complains of leg weakness that, I lie to myself, is nothing more than the heat (91 degrees, in April!) and the effect of his chemo pills.  We step into the market at Grand Central and treat ourself to a chunk of "Mrs. Quicke's Farmhouse Cheddar," imported from Devon and with the many-noted flavor of the sort of wine I never buy.  

Mrs. Quicke (she really is the farmer/cheesemaker) does it right, producing a sensation sequentially musty and earthy, rich and tart, spicy, velvety, tangy, and simply luscious.

Now the news that's so hard to write.

Rich's neurosurgeon wastes no time.  Reviewing the MRI tells him enough.  Don't go home, he says.  We can operate tomorrow.  How about next week, Rich asks.  We have many loose ends, arrangements to be made.  So the date is agreed upon:  Next Wednesday, May 6, for Surgery #5.

The nurse hugs us.  She's so sorry.  Because they know, they have seen this before.  Rich's tumor is way too far into the spine, and surgery is now buying weeks, not months, and when it becomes inoperable, Rich will be paralyzed.

Unless a magic bullet appears.  For this, he is risking another surgery.  Even if it is more poison.  

In the hours since, I've hit all of the notes.  This is not a Velveeta moment.  

I can't ignore the shattering, the crashing, the in-the-guts screaming that says I didn't order this, I don't understand this, and I can't breathe into the future.

 

Still.  I'm holding on to the luscious.

Candace

magic

Yesterday Rich and I did something we do, maybe, once a year or less.

We went to a movie.

WALL-E it was, and was it terrific, for all sorts of reasons -- environmental issues, technology/human issues, plus the incomprehensible skills (to me) needed to make this magic. 

What sticks, though, is the love between WALL-E and Eve. He's an old-model robot who trundles through mountains of trash left behind by the now-gone humans, while Eve serves these same humans, living fat and lazy in a luxury ship deep in space.  She's as sleek and high-tech as he is clunky and low, but he has a sentimental heart and, for him, it's love at first sight when she arrives on Earth.

Probably many reading this have seen WALL-E, so I won't say more except this: At the end, I cried.  Especially when the two robots touched. That's how WALL-E recognized his love. Because love is transparent enough to travel through space and back, and yet solid enough to save a world.  Magic, no?

Tomorrow Rich has another MRI, this one of the full spine to rule out spread of cancer in the lower regions (he has been having some discomfort in his leg).  Then it's back to NYC next week for, we hope, a brief and routine check-in with the medical folk with the good news that we can look forward to seeing another movie -- next year.

Candace

clawcuffed

Last night I was thinking about a lobster.  A lobster from my childhood who one day appeared in a tank at the neighborhood supermarket.  

Let me explain why this was odd.

It was the 1960s, in Brooklyn, and the store served mostly residents from the housing projects who were predominantly Jewish.  Which means few would buy this non-kosher New England-ish food.

Most of us thought he was brought in for the ambience, not for dinner.  More like a goldfish bowl than a meal.

Still, this lobster was on death row, and this broke my heart.  His claws were tied shut -- clawcuffed! -- but he wasn't guilty of any crime except he was, some thought, tasty.

What could I do?  Bring him home and keep him in the bathtub?  That, I knew, would not receive parental approval.

Or take him to the Port Authority and put him on a bus back to Maine?  I didn't think he would survive such a ride.

So I did nothing.  Except let my heart break each time I passed his tank.

Which isn't much different than these days with Rich, although all would agree he is much cuter than a lobster, especially when he's wearing suspenders (Rich, not the lobster).  He's clawcuffed by a chordoma, I have no idea how to get him out of the tank, and all I can do is try not to let my heart break.

Candace