Dateline: New York

Karine writes:

At last, pictures! I’m sure readers have been wondering how Zora’s looking these days. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a digital camera on the trip and neither did Tamara, but I did just get some analog pictures developed. Today’s set of snaps try to capture some aspects of Zora’s new post-surgical reality.

For Zora, feeling comfortable is all about finding just the right reclining angle. It’s uncomfortable to lie down too flat, but she also has to try to appease her aching back. (It’s a little unclear what the various sources of all the back pain are, but at the very least her back is hurting from two weeks of tension and holding herself at fixed
angles.) Also, the little area between the main incision and the two lung-tube scars is particularly sore and tender.

Washing her hair is also murder on Zora’s back. She’s not allowed to raise her arms up too far, so she has to bend like Quasimodo to clean her hair. Ouch.

Life right now is governed by the clock. How long until the next round of pain-management pills? Zora knows it as soon as the Vicodin and Advil (for inflammation) are wearing off. She has to get up in the middle of the night to refuel.

But I only know these things from observing Zora. She doesn’t complain. And by looking at her, you really wouldn’t have any sense of what’s going on. She looks wonderful, just like her old self as you can see, and it’s only when she moves around gingerly that you remember she’s been shat on by the universe. All the pain and the achiness, the exhaustion and tension, and especially the blindness: these are interior phenomena, invisible to the observer.

It’s so hard to represent or convey pain.

A few other details didn’t really show up too well in these low res pictures, unfortunately. Zora’s also sporting a double-barrel PICC line these days, which she uses to inject herself with the antibiotics every morning. The long tubes dangle out of her right arm, long enough that she can use her right hand to do the injecting. Most of the time she keeps them covered up by a sock. Sadly, she had to sacrifice one her favorite stripy socks for this purpose, before a gross of blah mesh socks arrived from the medical supply place. And then there’s the antibiotic ointment she has to put in her blind eye. It’s a lot.

Back at work today, I was talking with one of my rabbi pals about my experiences this weekend, and said how much I wished I could have stayed out there longer. He nodded, and said, “When we give, we also get.” (Then he passed the scotch.) I got a lot from having the chance to watch Zora show her remarkable fortitude.

And finally, a dispatch from the Graceful Exit department here at Blog Plaza. My fault: We had no sooner driven away on Sunday when Zora called: “Say, do you guys actually know where you’re going?”

Apparently in the frenzy of packing I left our map with the directions back to SF on the top of the car. Smooth. Zora found it blowing around in the middle of the street when she went for a walk, complete with “DIRECTIONS TO JIM’S APARTMENT” written on it in my handwriting.

Not my fault: Then ten minutes later Zora called again to say she had also found inside the house Tamara’s notes with the vital directions to the apartment T. was staying in that night.

Not my fault also: Later that night, when we finally made it back to SF, I had a delicious dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes and fresh hummus with Hugh and Rachel and Jim R.

Then Rachel kindly volunteered to drive me to the airport so I could catch my flight back to NYC and en route SOME GIGANTIC ASSHOLE hit us with his pick-up truck. He was trying to cross several lanes of traffic to make it to an exit ramp, and he sideswiped Rachel’s poor lil’ VW Golf—and then sped away. It was only thanks to Rachel’s masterful driving that we didn’t hit a guard rail or other cars. So we pulled off at the next exit, inspected the damage (body work), and laughed a lot. I borrowed some money from Rachel to pay for a cab and left her to tentatively drive back home, hazards flashing.

Rachel wrote me later to say, “When I got home, Jim and Hugh made me a stiff martini, and then we all consoled ourselves by fondling the washer/dryer.” [ed note: Hugh and Rachel just bought that washer/dryer set, their very first, for their new home—it gives them great joy. Ed’s other note: I miss my old washer and dryer. Sniff.]

Wherever you are, Pick-Up Truck Dickwad, thanks a lot.


[In the comments below, Zora states: “For the record, those little red dots are not my nipples—those are the little holes where lung-drainage tubes were set up during surgery.” Thanks for clearing that up. Because after a few drinks, with the lights down low, well... it all get so confusing.]

Still Life

This was taken from Beverly’s cell phone. Though I’d like to imagine that Zora has suddenly taken up painting and progressed very quickly! Judging from the artichokes present and uneaten, I’d date this to before Saturday’s dinner, after Karine and Tamara went shopping.

31 January 2006

Zora rests and recovers. Alas, none of my stringers have delivered a dispatch. Such are the perils of long-distance reporting. Perhaps the latest from Iraq is scaring away all the embeds. And it doesn’t seem right to demand of Zora that she write something witty, insightful, and revealing.

But I did speak to her. And all seems OK.

30 January 2006

In her blog, Zora writes:

Massive thanks to Karine and Tamara for playing personal assistants, nutritionists, and chefs for the past few days. They left this afternoon, after stocking up on fish tacos, and I tried to remember how to function without them.

They set me up on a quality diet. The nurse told me last weak [ha—Freudian slip—I mean ‘week’] that I was still pretty anemic, so the agenda was foods high in iron. Also, high fiber, to counteract the effects of all the narcotics I’ve been taking—no way I wanted to end up in a Whitney Houston/Bobby Brown situation.

I’ve never in my life eaten with specific nutrition in mind—I mean, aside from the old BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce, tea) diet to get over diarrhea, or lots of yogurt to make up for antibiotics. But I’ve always enjoyed the creative challenge of playing within extreme limitations, and I think Tamara did too, composing menus from a list of specific ingredients.

Research on the subject of iron-rich foods was a little hazy, though, with some websites claiming very contradictory things, so T. and K. forged ahead with lots of spinach, liver, raisins, molasses, etc. Which is not nearly as gross as it might sound. Consider, for instance, a spinach and bacon salad topped with chicken livers and a warm balsamic dressing. Dark, rich gingerbread. Clams in a saffron broth. Steak and baked potatoes with the skin on.

What’s most encouraging is that these are things that were genuinely appealing, almost within the realm of cravings. My body knows what it needs, and I’m pretty aware of it. And even though Tamara and Karine and my mother were waiting on me hand and foot, eating three square meals of home-cooked food a day made me feel a little more independent, a little less like I owed my entire life to the miracle of modern medicine.

Because so far that has been one of the most unsettling things about this surgery—before it, I somehow considered myself not reliant on contemporary American society. I was above it, or outside it, because I could function in less-plush conditions (e.g., use squat toilets, buy meat from open-air butchers), I could feed myself, I didn’t own a car, I could entertain myself without cable TV... I would be able to survive when our economy crashed and/or the climate changed and/or whatever other looming disaster finally came to be.

Folly.

Now I thank the lord for Vicodin and the health insurance I so recently got and an endless supply of clean hospital gowns and antibiotics and syringes with pre-measured heparin and saline, and sweet and kind nurses who seem to like their jobs. The health-care system is deeply flawed, but it’s done right by me, so far.

I feel shaky—but the iron-rich diet is helping me feel stronger all around. And tomorrow they’d better have oysters back in stock at the beach restaurant.

29 January 2006

Tamara writes:

greetings readers—

I would love to continue the baseball metaphor, but all I know of baseball is that it features Big Men in Tight Pants. Not really applicable here.

Another foggy/rainy day in San Fran [ed note: Santa Cruz]. Karine and I began our day with bad coffee in our cute hotel, and good coffee in Java Junction on the way to Zora’s Spa Retreat House. She was sleeping when we arrived, so we made breakfast and drank some more good coffee and perused the Times. (Nothing like being New Yorkers in exile— there is always the Times no matter how bad the rest of it is.)

We quickly decided to consult the internet to determine once and for all which foods are iron rich, so we could cook our remaining meals with that in mind. As all good internets research goes, we were given severely conflicting information. We ended up going with the one that told us what we already knew. Sort of like asking a friend for advice. You don’t really want it if it differs from your impending action. As for iron: meat, fish, and LOTS of leafy greens. Oh, and vitamin C and things like citrus and molasses are facilitators for faster/more efficient absorption of iron. Who knew?? After much discussion, our list was made and we were off for yet another trip to the Promised Land, aka The Shopper’s Corner.

Today there was no Long-John-Silver dressed homeless man doing whippets in the dairy aisle with the Redi Whip, but there was a very nice butcher and MORE nice people offering to help us seemingly every 8 feet. [ed note: what is it with that? It’s like every store is Bed Bath & Beyond. Drives me batty. Christ, I’m a big boy and can take the initiative and ask if need help. How helpless and soft can Californians be? And while I’m at it, stranger, stop asking “how are you?” like you care. You don’t care. And it’s not polite. Has it ever occurred to you that I might not be well? Times have been tough. See, my wife just had heart surgery and lost her eye. So what do you want me to say? Because I hate smiling saccharinely and saying, “fine.” By the time 10 people in the same store ask how am I and if they can help—folks, how much help can you possibly need in a grocery store?—I want to unload real problems: “Oh, thanks for asking. I hope you can help. See, ever since my father bad-touched me when I was a kid, I’ve been having dreams of sleeping with my mom and now the voices are telling me to hurt people and I have this horrible burning sensation when I pee... could you recommend a nice chardonnay that would go well with that?” …But I digest.]

We basically bought out the entire produce section and some other stuff for lentil soup, molasses gingerbread, and staples for when we are gone. And zippy bags for freezing leftovers— (thanks, Victoria!). And wine. Is there really ever enough wine?

We arrived back at the house, unloaded, and Karine got down to business making a kick ass molasses gingerbread (Good vitamin C in there). Zora, Beverly, and I walked slowly down to the boat docks at the end of the block where we intended to eat fish tacos for lunch, and did. Not only that but we ate them RIGHT ON THE BEACH. For some reason, I was not prepared to be eating on the beach, so it was a bit confusing. That, and maybe because my head was swimming with logistical thoughts of cooking braised pork shoulder with tomatillo sauce, sautéed kale and chard, rice, and lentil soup for 8 people with only about 4 pans at my disposal. I don’t know.

What I do know is that Zora was feeling pretty good and ordered 6 oysters on the 1/2 shell to prove it. Unfortunately, our waitress forgot them, so we settled for our spectacular fish tacos instead. DEEEELISH. Then it was a slow walk back and the beginning of dinner preparation.

I will spare you all of the gruesome details, but let me just say that when you are cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, it behooves you to check the oven after you have put your pork shoulder in. Perhaps, PERHAPS say,… 20 minutes max. Do not wait 2 hours to check, lest you find yourself with an oven that is NOT ON. Because that, my little aspiring cook friends, can make you a little bit mental (Rhymes with Yentel).

Other than that, it went pretty well. I realized early on that lentil soup would have to be jettisoned to tomorrow morning, simply because we did not have the stovetop space, but that was fine. Zora can have some for lunch and then freeze the rest for the week. We are now very conscious of trying to stock the freezer with things she can have to eat that are good and cooked with love.

Guests arrived promptly at 6pm [ed note: clearly not Astoria] bearing the BEST CAKE EVER from a SF bakery called, “Just Desserts,” and wine. We love everyone who made that cake possible. I will be dreaming about it for the rest of my days, and I am not alone in that. It was a cream cheese frosted lemon/butter cake with blueberries in the middle of the layers.

Dinner began with artichokes, and then moved to a fennel/blood orange/pomegranate salad, sautéed kale and rainbow chard, red rice, braised pork shoulder and tomatillo sauce. I think it was pretty good. It was preceded, accompanied, and followed by a marvelously amusing Princeton Reunion that you did not have to go to Princeton to appreciate. Hugh, Rachel, Jim, and Kevin are charming and hilarious, and Zora seemed to really enjoy the walk down memory lane (Scabies, Peter?). Note to others who did not go to Princeton: Do not ever lick a raw pig snout, lest you break out in sores in your mouth. [ed note: this was really a Terrace Club reunion. Where Barton taught us that food really does equal love.]

Dinner ended, there was the lovely cake (did I mention the cake???), and after coffee the guests left [ed note: again, clearly not Astoria] . Zora headed for the computer and Karine and I for the kitchen cleanup. We have made our final shopping list for the Corner, and are due there in about 8 hours, so I think it is time to sign off. Tomorrow morning brings the making of lentil soup, and goodbyes, which I am not really ready for.

I worry about leaving—not because I think anyone will starve, but because as well as she is doing, she is still in pain and really knows it when she does not take her Vicodin exactly on time. Her back hurts, her scar pulls, and it is hard to read for very long. She doesn’t complain, but it makes my heart weep when I see her hug a friend with her arms tied to her side lest she try to raise them, which she cannot. She is an amazingly strong woman whom I am lucky and proud to know. And this is a very difficult process.

Tamara

All’s well

I’m off to New York. Karine called to say that all is well. Hugh and Rachel and Jim R, old Terrace friends, are coming down from San Francisco for dinner tonight. So sounds like the party will be just like old days. Except the salad bar won't be on Karine and Zora.

Clean-up aisle 1!

Yeah, enough of that “poetry.” Christ almighty. Can’t we get back to sports metaphors? Well here’s the live report from Dr. S., Karine Sandy Koufax, the Mitzvah Queen herself:

Happy to report from the dugout that Zora is doing great. The doctor checked her out this morning and said that all was well. Expect for some over-exertion and a lot of anemia. In a nutshell, she needs a crapload of iron and she needs to temporarily stop climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and doing all that bungee jumping. But the doctor did say that even if she does do too much activity, there is no chance of her heart “falling out onto the street” as a result. So that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about.

We packed up all the mountains of stuff in Emily’s apartment. We got Jim’s car from Daphne, and refilled Zora’s pain prescription. Tamara successfully squashed three car’s-worth of luggage into a single trunk and the only thing we forgot was the kosher salt [ed note: Oy]. We got to Santa Cruz fast and installed Zora and Beverly into a really nice house that is some older couple’s vacation place.

We found a supermarket and Tamara made a great iron-heavy dinner (I picked the chicken livers out of my salad though). Patrick came over afterwards and we all ate ice cream. When we realized that the hot water heater wasn’t on, Zora independently nipped down to the basement, turned it on, and came back up again before anyone noticed. Nice one, Zor. There’s no keeping her down. And when Tamara and I got back to our hotel tonight, the nice manager (an NYC retiree—go NY!) stopped us and said, “Care for a nightcap of a sugar cookie?” Fresh baked sugar cookies! It was cute [ed note: cookie nightcap cute? My ass! Where’s the booze?!].

In some ways, though, the best part of the day was the part I missed. Tamara was in the schmancy Santa Cruz supermarket when she saw an icky tableau in the dairy aisle: a homeless man had opened up a can of ReddiWip and had the nozzle stuffed up his nose, doing whippets off the aerosol gas. The manager had to come and confiscate the ReddiWip [ed note: and then the friggin’ Santa Cruz check-out girl had the gumption to say to Tamara, “Oh, you’re from New York, you must see that a lot!”]

Assuming Zora is still feeling okay tomorrow, I might try to go in the hotel’s heated pool for a few minutes. Zora lent me her bathing suit. This morning the coffee shop guy on Diversidero laughed at me because I was wearing my NYC winter coat in the 55 degree S.F. drizzle. “You look cozy,” he said.

You know, as I lie here in our Santa Cruz hotel on the synthetic bedspread with the trompe l’oeil cacti [ed note: trompe l'what??], I can’t help but review the events of the day with a twinge of pride. By the end of the day Tamara and I had upgraded our staff motto from the low-key, “hey, everybody’s still alive,” to the more ambitious “another mission accomplished!”

Thanks Karine. Great job. After seven innings, the good guys are still winning!

Dreams, poems, and wireless connection

Zora is in Santa Cruz with both cell phone and internet / e-mail access. Talk about connected!

Maybe I’ll let her be a guest blogger soon. I wonder if she can write? I’d hate to waste a lot of time editing schlock.

Well, either way, she did write me this:

I’m here in Santa Cruz. Very cute little cottage by the harbor. Close to the fish taco place. (Well, I’m sure there are others, but the fish taco place I’ve eaten at.) Karine and Tamara shacked up in a hotel nearby and are currently cruising the great grocery store, Shopper’s Corner.

Nice to be here, and to have better internet access, I think…
Wearing a filmy tank top that shows off my scar…

A few minutes later there was this update:

T and K and B are all here—T and K got a little hotel room a few blocks away. This place is very cozy.

“Artichokes”! I heard that in the kitchen! Giant purply ones like the ones you brought back that time…

Oh, that time... uh, that time? Like I remember “that time.” Like I remember anything. Here’s a simply rule for making Zora happy: buy artichokes. This scene has happened more that once:

Peter [enters, sweaty, carrying a bottle of ouzo, a six pack of beer, an amazon.com box I ordered for myself, and 2 artichokes]: “Here babe, I got some artichokes. Who loves you?”

What a romantic devil I am. But amazingly, it works every time. Zora loves artichokes.

So I have this other dream that’s kind of Big Rock Candy Mountain with thistles. As dreams go, it sure beats bouncing around the minor league circuit getting beat up by Endocardidates:

I get up early every morning and tend to the artichoke trees in our field in Queens. And then I bring Zora back a nice one for breakfast. And they come off the tree perfectly cooked and honey bees drip bits of butter on it as I walk back to the house... And then I wake Zora up, all beautiful and smooth and no stinking breath and she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom. And then we have sex and eat steaming artichokes, which somehow are the perfect breakfast food.

Zora, of course, thought it was good. Especially the part about me getting up in the morning.

I also texted Zora some haikus last night. I wonder if there are any endocarditis poetry slams around here?

They opened your heart
did the modern procedure
really see your love?

and then there’s

Baby don’t worry
you won’t remember the pain
you’ll be better soon

and

New day feels the same;
each day like the last; but Spring
comes after Winter

[you see, in haikus you get extra credit for seasonal references]

Alas, then I found out that the text messages coming in woke Zora up at 3am. But the answer can always be found in 5 - 7 - 5 Homeric references:

Try silent my dear
then dawn with rosy fingers
will great you for me

And finally today, when Zora was at the doctor’s to get approval for the trip to Santa Cruz

Any word, my sweet?
the doc should say OK, but
no roller coaster

To Santa Cruz

Zora got the all clear from the doc for the travel to Santa Cruz. They're making good time and are currently about 20 miles from Santa Cruz. Zora is napping in the back seat.

27 January 2006

Wow. This is just like one of the Fox Sports “in the dugout” interviews.

Tamara, it was a rough 7th. How do you feel?

Tamara writes:

Another overcast day in lovely S.F....

Zora is at the doctor right now to get clearance to go to Santa Cruz. She overextended herself on Wednesday—walking for a half hour instead of the prescribed 5-10 minutes. So Thursday she was tired out and her body wasn’t having any more exertion. Beverly is with her at the doc’s. Karine and I are cleaning The Most Amazing Apartment Ever like fiends. And hopefully we will all be on the road to Santa Cruz by 4pm-ish.

Thanks for Jim for graciously volunteering his car for the journey. I wonder if he ever saw Thelma and Louise? Oh well, too late now. We will report more from Santa Cruz, where I can only assume internet access will be better.

P.S. The food has rocked [ed note: if she does say so herself]

8 steps forward, 1 step back

I watched “Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World” tonight. I thought it sucked. But it does have a lot to do with humor that isn’t understood. It made me wonder why I made an obscure reference in the last post comparing Karine to Sandy Koufax, former great pitcher for the L.A. Dodgers.

Even as I was writing it I knew that nobody would get it. But it was so clever I couldn’t resist. The line was about rabbis loving Karine for taking the holy days off. But you have to know that Karine is teaching at a Jewish school... and a baseball fan... and doesn't look Jewish... and that the old rabbis love having the blond shiksa on their arm... and she doesn’t work Yom Kippur.... brilliant, I tell you, brilliant.

Ah well, Karine and I are the only people I know who would possibly have a knowledge of her; her job; and Sandy Koufax. And just between you and me, I don’t even think Karine got it.

But let me tell you, if you were a Jewish baseball fan around in the 1960s who knew Karine today, you’d still be laughing. And just for the record, I’d understand any reference comparing me to Hank Greenberg. Beyond that, you’ve got to use google.

Anyway, it seems the relief pitchers had a little trouble getting out of the seventh inning. I don’t have an update from the field yet. I think we got the third out. I know we still have the lead. But I’m pretty sure the bad guys scored a run or two. I guess I went to the locker room to take a shower.

Zora was a little worse today. She walked a lot yesterday. And she thinks the uphill part did some harm. I don’t think anything too bad. But it was a minor step back. What can you do? I hoping that in a few months we won’t even remember this step back. Certainly her chest is still fragile. She’s not supposed to lift anything over 10 pounds for something like 6 weeks. And walking uphill is very different than walking on level ground. And well, she’s on the top of a hill. So if you walk too far in any direction, it’s uphill on the way back.

Tomorrow in the afternoon, Zora is off to Santa Cruz. Jim offered his car for the journey. Tamara said something to effect of, “Hey, an Audi. Cool! I’ve thrown-up in an Audi!” Jim wasn’t too happy. But Zora told me that Jim has been on the giving end of that game far more than the receiving end. Still, last I heard, Tamara wasn't out eating too much sherbet tonight. So I don’t think this dialogue will happen:

Tamara: Zora, take the wheel. Now. Really!
[Zora, groining with pain, takes the wheel just as Tamara opens the driver’s side door]
bleeeeeeegh
Zora: You OK?
Tamara [closing door]: Yeah, fine. Back in the game. We over The Hill yet?

Drive safely. Zora is in no position to wear a seat belt.

25 January 2006

I’m in Santa Monica, alas with little idea how Zora is at this very moment. But I got a good feeling she’s OK. She’s probably sleeping better not on the percocet. It gave her bad dreams. She made her first post in her blog since the surgery, which is a good sign. Given that, and it goes along with her description, it’s time to post the picture of Zora right out of the O.R. This is the poor thing right before they removed the breathing tube and she began begging for the smallest drops of water.
Here is Zora today: Looking sharp, sexy!

And this was Zora one week ago, immediately after coming out of the operating room.

She’s come a long way, baby! It was actually worse than it looks in the picture. Leaving aside the breathing tube and the hand restraints, the picture crops the mountains of machines and IV drips that were going into her at the time. Something like eight IV bags hung like a Christmas tree. And she was kind of stinky... and made me scratch her armpits.

Hard to imagine that was just one week ago. I was waiting to show that picture to Zora before I posted it. She didn’t think it was so bad, since you can’t actually see all the tubes coming out of her body.

Here are more shots from today. From these, you’d think that Zora spends all her time on her computer. She doesn’t. But we did have to take the computer to the park in order to get an internet connection. Kind of a pain.



Zora in park

I’m just posting this picture to shame Zora into better posture. I know, I know, the poor girl just had heart surgery. Still. Ain’t no wife of mine going to slip into being a hunchback. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!


Inhale slowly. It’s a beautiful living room with a great view overlooking Alamo Square.

The breath-o-meter works like this. You inhale slowly until the yellow thing on the left raises a bit. You keep inhaling at a slow pace, just enough to keep the yellow thing levitating. Meanwhile the meter on the right goes up. The stronger, the higher, the better. Just like one of those old carnival test-your-strength-hit-the-bell-and-win-a-prize things. Except it’s lung power. And there’s no bell. If you’re giving out prizes, this is my inhale.

Here’s the view from the kitchen. That’s City Hall with the dome.

And the view from the living room.


Zora’s/Emily’s bed.

And last, but certainly not least, Zora’s scars. You know you were wondering but were just too polite to ask. I think they’re hot. The main incision is about 5 inches. The two little nubs are where the lung tubes were. They’re healing very well. Hard to imagine they just opened her up and went to work so recently.


So it’s late. I’m off to bed. Hopefully I’ll sleep long and hard. I can finally take a little breather.

In my dream, I’m on the mound in the bottom of the seventh inning. It’s a hot August night in a place like Johnstown, Pennsylvania, or Wheeling, West Virginia. Bugs swarm the lights above and cicadas zzzzzzZZZZ through the humidity.

It’s been a long season and months of long late-night bus rides have started to take their toll. Tonight, I’ve been knocked around a bit. But I’ve kept us in the game. When we scored a few runs in the top of the 6th, we retook the lead. But it’s been hard-fought and we’re a long way from the Friendly Confines.

The manager, a wise tobacco-chewing man who looks like Wilford Brimley from the Natural, walks out to the mound and spits. Nothing else. But I know what he means. “Don’t bullshit me, son. Give it to me straight.” I tell him: “Pops, my arm is tired, my fastball is spent, and all I got left is junk. But I’ve been fooling them so far and if you keep me in I’ll win this game. I can keep tossing them up there as long as it takes.”

But the coach is wise and heard it all before. He knows there are better arms on the bench. Without saying a word, he takes the ball, pats my ass, and signals for the two righties warming up in the bullpen (hey, it’s my dream, I can bring in two pitchers at once if I want).

A couple of Endocarditis fans heckle me on the way out, but I pay them no mind. They know they’ve been beaten. Most of them have already left the old wooden ballpark. The ones that have stayed are passed drunk. But the thin crowd makes the voices distinct.

A few supporters make themselves known by standing and applauding. Brave and comforting faces a long way from home. This late in the game, our supporters may even outnumber the hometown ruffians.

I’m exiting with the lead, but it’s no time to tip my cap. I didn’t have my best stuff. But the fans know I hear them. I acknowledge a few supporters with eye contact and a barely discernable nod. In the dugout I throw my glove down and slump to the bench. But deep-down I’m feeling all right, confident we’ll get the win and the lead will hold.

The public address announcer comes out to the field with his megaphone. In a sonorous voice he says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please have your pencils and scorecards ready. Now pitching for the visiting Astorians: Tamara ‘Miss 30th Avenue’ and Karine ‘the Mitzvah Queen.’” There are a couple of boos from the thinning ranks of Endocardidates. But the bad guys only boo you when they fear you.

The scouting report on Tamara is hard heat with a control problem. Karine’s more crafty with a fastball in the 80s, a curve, an offspeed, and even an occasional knuckle ball. And no, she’s not Jewish, but the rabbis love her. She takes all the holy days off.

So there’s a pitching change in San Francisco. Go to the bathroom. Grab a beer. We’ll be back in a moment.

And because it’s my dream, I can always come in again as a reliever.

Addendum
Zora writes:

My mother asks if she can be added to the dream team in blogland: “Isn’t there some position like the ball boy, or something, who’s just always there in the background and doesn’t really do anything? That could be me…”

Beverly underestimates herself. A utility infielder, Beverly entered the game in the 4th inning. She’s playing second base and batting eighth. She walked in her first at bat. Her nickname is “scooter.” But we all call her “giggles.”

I’m off to L.A.

I’m off to Oakland and the airport. Zora is doing well. She seems much better today. But I’m saying that’s due to the switch from percocet to vicodin.

We walked around the park today. She gets short of breath walking up hill. But hell, so do I. She’s up to 1,100 on the breath-o-meter.

Beverly is with her. And Tamara arrives tomorrow. I don’t like the fact I don’t know where or when I will see her next. But I think everything will be OK.

Back to the Basics

In her blog, Zora writes:

In the hospital, one leads a very rudimentary life. One’s expectations and aspirations become noticeably curtailed: I made it to the bathroom all by myself! Good job!

One’s palate also gets hella fucked up.

I had surgery at 7 in the morning. By the afternoon, I’d come around and the nurses pulled out the breathing tube. Then my mother was able to give me eensy doses of water, via a little green sponge on a stick. After a few more hours, I was allowed actual small chunks of ice.

That water was so simple, delicious, cold, nourishing—all I had to do was lie in bed and fantasize about the time when I would be able to drink a whole glass of it. Anyone who, when they’re high on ecstasy, feels vaguely like an idiot for saying, “This is the best water ever!”, don’t—it is the best water ever, and you’re getting to enjoy it without all the rigamarole of anesthesia, a heart-lung machine, and a million tubes sticking out of you.

Usually I could do a little cycle of sponge-sucking and ice-cube-savoring a couple of times before I’d need more pain meds and get knocked out again. I got into a very satisfying OCD rhythm with the sponge (three thorough sucks) and the ice cubes (one small one). I was a giant, incompetent hamster. I can only imagine how delightful it would’ve been if it were fizzy.

Then Peter came along and rubbed a bit of fruit in my mouth. It was terrifying yet fascinating. Tangy, warm, and so violently acidic that I was sure the nurses would yank it away as something toxic. It was also weirdly salty. Later, Peter told me it was a blood orange. I never would’ve imagined blood oranges actually tasting bloody.

Two days after the surgery, I was eating solid foods again, but wisely assigned the “bland” diet. Cardboard turkey. Paste potatoes. Packing-foam lettuce. Fine by me. When I got around to “regular” diet, though, I was already remembering what I was missing, though I didn’t have a huge appetite.

Last night I got home and ate a salad with a merciless dressing of anchovy and lemon juice. Burned the hospital food right off, and started fresh.

Out of the slammer, again

Zora left the hospital around 5:30 pm today. Hopefully for the last time. We moved her over to Emily’s place. Again, it’s hard to overstate how wonderful Emily is for moving out of her place for Zora. I really don’t know what we would have done without her.

Zora and Beverly are there. I am not there, for fear of cat allergies. But the place was well-cleaned this morning. Emily and her cat had only been there for only a week, and there are few soft surfaces. I was there for a few hours tonight, and am seeming to suffer no ill effects.

Zora and I even went grocery shopping. We had to get her prescriptions filled. But I was impressed at her stamina as she roamed up and down the isles.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think everything was normal.

Again, all still goes well. Her blood seems as clean as a whistle. She gets better every day. I’ll be happy when she’s off the percocet. It seems to flatten her personality. She’s switching the vicodin tomorrow, which may be a little less mind numbing. Hopefully it will still be enough for the pain.

Tomorrow, it will be much nicer to bike to an apartment rather than the hospital to visit her.

I may be off tomorrow for L.A. Or Wednesday.

Also, if you do happen to send stuff to Emily’s, here’s an important note: the delivery person must call Zora or Beverly’s phone to be let in. The door bell is only connected to Emily’s cell phone. And that doesn’t do much good, seeing how Emily isn’t there. So best not to give an apartment number. Just give the address and the cell phone number.

I won’t post any address on this blog. But I’ll be happy to e-mail it to interested parties. Zora will be at Emily’s till Friday.

22 January 2006

Still no setbacks. Zora get a little better every day. The greatest pain right now is in her lower back. No doubt from compensation and bad posture. She has a heating pad for that. And percocet. I slept in the hospital again and took two more vidodins last night. It wasn’t all that. So I think my drug binge is over and pharmacies may relax their security. Zora’s drugs are giving her some weird dreams and perhaps the occasional late-night hallucination. But nothing too bad.

Zora’s vision continues to get perhaps just a teeny bit better every day. Perhaps it’s up from one percent to two percent. Not much. But daily progress is still progress. The surgeon seems to think that some vision may come back in the next few months. But he’s far more optimistic than the ophthalmologists, who are supposed to know this kind of thing.

But overall Zora is doing great. I helped her take a shower and washed her hair. She is walking quite well. She can go up at least a half-flight of stairs, and I’d bet more. And we went outside for the first time today for about 10 minutes, to an outside inner courtyard.

Her breath-o-meter is showing about a 20% improvement everyday. It’s like an asthma peak-flow meter. But it measures the inhale rather than the exhale. Using the contraption is also good exercise for slow deep breathing. She’s now inhaling up to 1,100. From 900 yesterday, 750 the day before, 500 the first day. The meter goes up to 5,000. On a good inhale I can get it up to about 4,500.

As far as we know, the discharge is still scheduled for tomorrow. And Tamara and Karine, the replacement team (I don’t want to call them second-stringers), are scheduled to arrive Wednesday and Thursday. As Karine put it: “Just think of us as the relief squad, coming on the field as the first-string players head to the bench for some gatorade.”

This got Tamara thinking:
HEY!! Wait a minute. If the first string players are off the field drinking gatorade, have we already had our gatorade, or do we have to wait until we are done playing? And what if there isn’t any left because SOME people (Peter) have drunk it all? Dude. I am bringing my own gatorade, just in case.

Travel on, dudes.

I’m going to make her a mild Chinese beef and spinach (lots of spinach) for Zora’s dinner.

Here’s the Vietnamese sandwich store from yesterday.


Inside the store.


Mayo. Lots of mayo. Zora likes mayo.


Sergeant Salvation Army.


Eating bahn mi.


Today we went on our wilderness trek to the 6th floor patio.


What is this thing you call “the outside”?


Great ball of fire in the sky! Zora hasn’t been outside for over a week.
What a beautiful picture of her.

Zora and me.


Meanwhile, I’m sure everybody is wondering how my finger is doing. Thanks for asking. It’s healing quite nicely, thank you.



And Flappy’s rating are finally going down. As my Aunt Patty Jean put it, “Good riddance to sweeps week.”

Oh, blessed sleep

I had my first 8-plus hours of sleep last night. Actually 10 hours. Nothing like a good night’s sleep. Perhaps thanks to the Vicodin. Or just Zora getting better everyday. And it’s sunny out. I’ll be off to the hospital soon. And Jim is going to bring some Vietnamese sandwiches. I doubt they’’ll be as good as the great ones we get in NYC, but I’’m still looking forward to them.


Addendum:
The sandwiches were good. But not nearly as good at the NYC bahn mi.

20 January 2006

Another day and Zora improves again. She’s unhooked from all tubes. She carries a little heart monitor. And there are still a lot of things attached to her and a few lines sticking out of her, but she’s free to walk around all by herself.

Zora is walking and going to the bathroom on her own. She even took a shower, her first, with a little help from me. She went up and down 6 steps twice. And I made her do an extra lap around the floor before bed. The only “normal” thing she needs help with right now is swinging her legs into bed.

She also ate her first somewhat normal non-hospital meal. I brought in a good hamburger (from the same place I went two nights ago) and she wolfed it down pretty well. That and some soup and potato salad. Food is pretty good in this town.

All the doctors are impressed. I just hope the recovery continues to go so smoothly the rest of the way.

Her pain is there, but it’s not that bad. It makes me a little bitter that the doctors didn’t give me better painkillers than advil when I cracked my rib. Because that hurt like hell. And this hurts much more, but Zora is in less pain. They gave me more painkillers here for my damn pinky (which is doing just fine--it’s now wickless and unbandaged) than for the month of misery I had in New York.

Speaking of which, I just took my first Vicodin ever not too long ago. That a few drinks isn’t doing much, unfortunately. But there is a certain mellowness to it all. I should have taken two. I still haven’t found my prescription for them, alas (what kind of idiot loses a prescription to Vicodin?). But I “borrowed” one of Zora’s.

Percocet is now doing the job of taking away Zora’s pain. The painkillers make her bit like a Stepford wife. She’s very calm. Not very emotional. Pretty happy to go with the flow. But that’s good. The pain is being kept in check.

She’s also on other drugs. One to keep her heart beat regular. Antibiotics (another 4-week IV course). Some supplements, like for potassium. A stool softener (something in the regiment is supposed to cause constipation). And probably a few other things I’m forgetting. But all the bodily functions are working A-OK.

The latest plan for the Monday discharge is I help her with the discharge and get her settled in Emily’s place, and then don’t stay there. And then on Tuesday I go to Santa Monica to see my parents as I have a few days of work to get done there. And then head back to New York for work.

As long as Zora promises that there will be no reason I need to come back, all should go well. She’ll be with her mom. And Tamara and Karine are planning on flying out here Wednesday or Thursday. I’ll feel better knowing they’re here as well. But as long as things continue as improve as they have, there really isn’t that much I can do.

On the 27th, Zora will probably head down to Santa Cruz and recoup some more with her father and Karen. And hopefully she’ll be able to fly back to New York very soon. The major obstacle to that right now is the steps leading up to our apartment. And our low bed. She needs something 20 to 25 inches high. A box-spring booster is cheap, but I can’t do anything about those steps.

By me not staying with her at Emily’s, it avoids the whole cat problem and getting a new bed for me and my allergies. And she’ll be in good hands. Especially if Tamara is here to do the cooking.

Given all the great nurses, I have to mention that we didn’t really like her day nurse today (they work in 12-hours shifts). But even she’s OK. She works tomorrow too, unfortunately. She’s not bad. But seems a bit overwhelmed.

There’s a problem with the California laid-back attitude: they can’t handle busy and stress as well (I saw it in the E.R. that busy night as well). In New York, many people thrive on the adrenaline rush of a busy and stressful night. Here, once their mellow is broken, they’re left floundering a bit more. They get flustered too quickly when it’s “one of those nights.” Honey, in a hospital (or a police squad, or a restaurant) every night can be one of those nights. Rise to the challenge. You can get a lot more done a lot more efficiently when you stay calm. That’s what being a professional is all about.

Here are some pictures from the past two days.

Zora and Beverly. Note the top of the sexy scar!


View from Zora’s room.

Zora in bed, brushing her teeth

Exciting Friday night at Club UCSF. We’re looking all smug because it’s a timer shot.


It makes all the difference that Zora’s got a single room. Here’s the pull out chair I slept in last night. Not the best bed. But it was kind of nice to see the night routine Zora goes through every night. I didn’t sleep well, with all the interruptions, but I did sleep longer than I’ve slept in a while.

Here’s Nadia. I brought her nice orange juice today from the cafeteria. Unfortunately, when I went to find her later, she was already discharged. No doubt she couldn’t be held back as she leapt away.


Tell it like it is, sister. No doubt Nadia was saying, “Walk a lot and be happy!” She also said Zora and I should have kids as soon as Zora is better.

Yesterday’s party in Nadia’s room.

I’m glad one of these isn’t in Zora


Nor these. Second from right on bottom is a mitral.

I had some business down in this part of town, called Sunset. Nice to remember there is a pretty ocean here. I don’t know what I would do without a bike. It makes getting around so easy. Of course I say that in New York, too. But San Francisco is so small. Everything is just a few miles away.

Greek Day at the hospital cafeteria. It wasn’t all that.

Delivery robot trying to make it through the halls. I’m not quite sure how a weird robot is better than a cheap orderly. But it was kind of fun to watch navigate, and not so well at that.

Thanks Dapper Dan!

I’ve now been up 17th Street three times. I kind of like the hill, for exercise. And it does, in fact, get easier every time.

Here’s the incline. That’s pretty fucking steep. When I get back to NYC, I’ll be flying over the Queensboro Bridge!
And, if you still need something to do, go to losteye.com.

Monday hospital departure

The insurance didn't come through for home care, so Zora's departure date is being pushed back till Monday. Ironic, because you'd think that it would be insurance pushing for Zora's release. Doubly ironic, because the same thing happened before trying to get out of Manhasset.

Perhaps it's for the better as it makes things more relaxed on getting Emily's place cleaned and a new bed moved in.

Meanwhile, Zora's red blood cell count is low. So I'm going to bike back there and bring her a hamburger. Oh, Tamara would be ashamed at our failure to feed.

Friday

I spent last night here at the hospital. They gave me a fold out chair thingy, so I could be horizontal. But both phone and internet reception are hard to get here.

It looks like Zora will be discharged tomorrow. So I've got to work on getting Emily's place cleaned and a new matress in there.

Zora continues to recover. She can walk on her own. Yesterday she went up and down 2 (two) stairs. And there's a very spry 65-year-old lady of Palastinian origin on the floor that had much to tell Zora about the good of walking and being happy. This woman was very spry. She was also happy when four of us were piled in her room and she busted out the chocolates. She said she likes compay and was sorry she couldn't fix us dinner.

Comments and an offer

Some of you may have wanted to leave comments but were intimidated by having to register. Alas, I didn’t know the settings were set that way. They are now changed and now anybody can post. All you have to do is type in the weird letters you see (because yes, even, blog comments get spam).

Zora hasn’t seen any of the comments yet, but when she gets out of the hospital I’m sure she will be happy to go through them all.

Speaking of getting out, Emily, Jim’s sister, just called and offered her place. Then she would stay here with Jim and Daphne on their aerobed. That offer is very very kind of her.

Unfortunately, she has a cat. But she just moved in (last week) and has yet to lay down any fabric. So I think it may still be possible to decontaminate the place enough for me to survive.

She lives there alone and the bed is large and comfortable. It seems like the best choice yet. I'll talk to Zora.

Early departure?

I just spoke to Beverly at the hospital. She said the doctors are meeting about the possibility of sending her home tomorrow. Yikes.

I think another day or two would be much better. And I’d bet we could convince them of that as well. But I suppose it’s a good sign that they would even consider such a thing.

Maybe we can get the doctors to prescribe a bed so our insurance will pay for it. We were sleeping on an aerobed on the ground. I don’t think that will do for Zora.

From the peanut gallery...

...I hear a familiar voice shouting over the din. Waving a cigarette in one hand and a coke in the other, my Godmother writes:

There would have been no difference if you had gone to ER in NY when eye trouble began versus going to ER in SF, except it would have been in a different time zone and crappier place and weather. And as anyone who has been hospitalized knows, the importance of nurses who are competent AND nice cannot be overstated. I bet the food is going to be better too.

Side note: ER is a much cooler name than ED. Imagine a t.v. show being called E.D. - just not the same. Try saying we've got to get to the E.D. vs we've got to get to the E.R., it's just wrong. What insecurities led to this decision? Were they afraid people thought it was just a lowly little room and not a whole big impressive department?...

After a while Zora will adjust to the blind eye but can use it to her advantage. If there's any chore or activity that she'd like to avoid doing she can say sweetly, oh, I'd love to but of course because of my eye I just can't....

Now I look forward to dramatic drop in blog ratings as we head in to nice, steady recovery reports. Good riddance to sweeps week.

love, Aunt Patty Jean

p.s. one-eyed legends: Uncle Jim maneuvered your boat through narrow Amsterdam canals with your mother biking and beating him to the next bridge.

Pictures

Not being at home, getting pictures on the blog is a bit harder. But I’m getting there. Here’s a picture from before our trip. It’s the embolic reaction in Zora’s finger.
I show this because some of you may wonder, why the hell did you go a trip when there was the risk of blindness and open-heart surgery. Well, this was the indication. The slight redness near the first joint. It doesn’t exactly jump out at you (though it hurt more that the picture would indicate).

We wanted to play the treatment conservatively. The doctors thought everything would likely be fine. So off we went. Clearly in hindsight we should have had surgery then. But was it the wrong decision to not have surgery in New York? I don’t think so. Yes it turned out wrong. But sometimes you just take your chances and lose. It doesn’t make it the wrong decision. Sometimes the right decisions don’t work. And who knows, maybe if had surgery in New York, it wouldn’t have gone so well.

Zora and I enjoyed a nice day and a beautiful ferry ride from Oakland back to San Francisco before the vision in the left eye went. Here’s Zora back in the slammer. She was already blind in one eye, but this was right before they tried their futile treatment. Property of SFGH She didn’t look so nice after they were done with her.

A day or so later. We’re in the ICC room pre-surgery.

Notice Daphne’s gift socks.

Heidi just took this shot to get a picture of my ass

Here’s the gang.

I do have a picture of Zora post-op. But I want to show it to Zora before posting it. But if you saw it, you too would be impressed at the progress she has made.

Here’s Zora in her current room, out of ICC. This was taken a few hours ago. The lighting isn’t great, but her sexy legs are.

And there’s a TV with a headphone jack in her room. Maybe I’ll bring my earplugs tomorrow and watch TV all day!