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