Thursday, September 28, 2006

and enough of that

About once or twice a week when I wake up in the morning, I have to stop and look to see the mate's still breathing. It used to be scary. She doesn't know I do this. Of course, I can't even come near feeling how she feels. It's probably like narrowly missing a six-car pileup, only all the time.

Today the mate went to the hospital for a tune-up. This is usually a 2-week-or-so stay where they pump you full of antibiotics and do chest percussion therapy four times a day (I can only do once or twice a day.) I feel better when she's in the hospital because I'm no doctor and I know she'll be in good hands there. At 3 times a year for the past four years, it's pretty routine except for the fact that post-hospital recovery takes a little longer each time.

While she's there, I clean house so it's back in shape for her return, fly the bird, see a friend or two, write, stay up super-late playing mindless computer games. Every 2 or 3 days I visit and bring fresh clothes. When the mate went to Stanford I visited every day, but Pacific Med is in the City, and the traffic and parking suck. But then again, Pacific Med doesn't have a bevy of constantly changing fellows and interns, a mixed bag containing talentlessness, sensibleness, aggression, and earnestness.

We discussed transplant more and are pretty firmly decided to go for it. Like I said before, there's not much choice: live maybe one more year in poor condition with high maintenance, or take the risk of surgery and rejection, and get five or more low maintenance years. She'll land near the top of the gimme list, which means a 2 to 4 month wait, waiting for someone else to die too soon. Strange feeling, that.

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