Today's the Day!

According to my post-surgery recovery schedule, today is a landmark day. Six weeks after surgery, I am able to engage in such activities as:

Using my riding lawnmower
Bowling
Bowhunting

I'm sure all other middle-aged-white-guy activities are approved as well.

Bills? We all got bills.

Hey, what about my hospital bill? Where is the interest? Where are the contests? Hello?! Perhaps some lucky reader wants, uh… a framed print of the bloody post-op pinky?

Well, I’ll just cut to the chase: One infected pinky; successfully lanced in the Emergency Room; about a two-hour visit: $1,943. Covered by insurance.

Interestingly, that works out to about the same hourly rate as Zora’s stay. But I didn’t get meals or cocktail service.

Perhaps they could keep health care costs down (or at least speed up the waiting time) by having a meter running at a steady clip of about 25¢ a second. Or maybe 5¢ a second while waiting and $2.50 per second when a doctor is attending.

Here's a treat for the Us Weekly crowd...

Karine got me a custom welcome-home present. I'd been a little out of the gossip loop, so as she gave me the gift, she had to bring me up to speed on such essential items as the latest cover story in Vanity Fair.

Here I am enjoying my morning tea, in glowing soft-focus, with Karine's extremely thoughtful gift.



Hey, what's that picture on there? It looks familiar... Let's zoom in a little:



And it looks like there's some writing on the other side. What does that say?



It's like, yeah, motherfucker, I'm fine.

Ah, the immortal words of Lindsay Lohan. Who knew she was so wise?

PICC-free and Proud!

We're getting very close to The End of Flappy. The post-op impediments are dropping away: I can sleep more comfortably, I can lift my arms up to hug people, I'm done with antibiotics and all the other drugs but the Pacerone. I have a couple more follow-up appointments, including what will surely be a weird encounter with my primary care doc tomorrow. If she said "Oops!" last time I saw her, I can't imagine what she'll do when I show her my scar and ask for a referral to an opthalmologist.

But really much more important, I dropped by the ID guy's office today to get my PICC line removed. Seeing how I'd already seen it done once, I'm sure I could've handled the job myself, but I know that's Not Allowed.

It came out in one tidy whisk! Those savvy Californians: This PICC line had little centimeter measurements marked all along it, so the doctor didn't have to do what my nurse had done with the first one, which was to, with his clumsy gloved hands, try to match the sticky, blood-splotched thing up with the flimsy folded paper tape measure that comes in the dressing packs. So it was clear that all 41 centimeters that went in came back out again. That's almost twice the length of my first one. Also, in California they used much thinner thread on the sutures, so they didn't get stuck in the bandage every time it got changed, and they got yanked out much less painfully.

Dr. Gumprecht asked me if I wanted it, but I declined. That seemed kind of like keeping your wisdom teeth in a jar, or, as one guy I dated did, a parasite that's been dug out of your back in the Bolivian rainforest. (Actually, that was kind of cool.) Gumprecht looked pretty keen to send me home with it, especially when I said Peter might want to see it. "I'll put it in a bag," he offered. I felt like I was turning down some particularly choice leftovers. (Hey, maybe I could've sent it as a consolation prize to a Guess-the-Bill competitor?)

Anyway, now I have clusters of almost symmetrical little spots on the inside of both arms. Which is secondary to the fantastic shower I will be able to take tonight, using both arms equally, and lifted almost all the way above my head.

And the winner is...

Wait, I’m sorry—that phrasing is insulting to all the losers. I should say:

And the Vicodin goes to...

Tamara.

This sounds fishy, I know, given the photographic evidence of her looking at the bill. Here are the numbers:

Bill total (all 12 pages):

$161,076.91

Winning guesses, in order:

Tamara: $179,346.87 — off by $18,269.96
Naomi: $141,257.32 — off by $19,819.59
“Anonymous”: $132,000 — off by $29,076.91
Joanna: $198,357.92 — off by $37,281.01

Due to (A) the slightly sketchy circumstances surrounding Tamara’s bid and (B) the huge amount of Vicodin I have left over and (C) the closeness of the first two entries, I’m going to split the Vicodin winnings. Check your mail for opiates, ladies!

Wait, now that I think of it, Tamara is allergic to opiates too. That means I should get a cut if she sells them to anyone.

And Joanna officially gets bumped up to 3rd place due to the modesty of “Anonymous.”

And thanks to everyone else who entered—if you bid high, yes, you clearly do love me more!

On to the bill itself!

The fascinating thing is that it’s fully chronological, so I can relive all the highlights of my stay as they happened: Ooh, DOPAMINE40MG—those were the days! (That dose was just $8.54, for the record—a relative bargain.) And I got an awful lot of Fentanyl right after the operation ($3.70 per dose).

It’s also broken down by category at the end:

Pharmacy totaled $13,240.73—and that’s even higher now, after finishing my antibiotics, considering that a daily dose of ceftriaxone costs about $617.73 (lots more when administered in the OR). On the low end, a tab of Tylenol costs $.46.

The operating room and supplies cost $24,959. I don’t think that includes the bill straight from the surgeon, however. But all those cannulas! (Cannulae? At any rate, they range in price from $206 to $655.) My replacement annulus (no leering), a little Dacron-coated metal ring that holds my valve in place and shows up in X-rays now, was an even $5,400. A bargain at twice the price, considering it means I didn’t have to get a complete valve replacement.

A night in intensive cardiac care goes for $10,983. My ginormous private room was $3,269 per night. In the regular hotel world, only the Saudi royal family pays similar rates.

My dual-lumen PICC line was $676, and the expert insertion only set me back $207. Not bad when you cost it out per use. By contrast, the albatross of a cardiac monitor that I had to keep around my neck the whole time cost $1,221 per day to run—that’s one high-toned 9-volt battery!

And, hey, on Jan. 17, I see I got charged for a BRAT PACK: $2,517. Does that mean Judd Nelson was “scrubbed in” at the OR?

Home Sweet Home!

Astoria here we come!

We fly back to New York in a few hours. Hopefully we’ll get bumped up to first class. I can’t even imagine how they’ll service me in the front of the plane!

My suitcase is laden with lots of produce from yesterday’s farmers’ market. Tangerines, mandarins, tomatoes, green tomatoes, and, of course, artichokes. It’ll be nice to have a little bounty of fruit when we arrive in coldest darkest winter.

Sunny Californ-eye-aye

All’s well in California and we’ll be back in New York soon! Zora looks great. It is always kind of exciting to see two weeks of improvement in one fell swoop rather than the barely noticeable daily incremental improvements.

Because of the crowded quarters here (parents, brother, his wife, and their kids), my parents are putting Zora and me up in a hotel around the corner. That also means we’re not being awakened at uncivil hours by jet-lagged little ones. Zora must get her rest, now.

Despite Zora saying how much she likes California, I’m still not sold. But Zora’s done well by California. ...Except, of course, the left eye thing.

I’m looking forward to being back home. Six very long weeks after we left on our two week vacation.

More on Monday. Including the official winner of the Guess-the-Bill contest.

The votes are being tallied.

Actually, I know who has won--I just forgot to bring the bill with me to the computer, so I can't dazzle you with the precise figure just yet. Peter brought it with him yesterday, and I made about the same face Tamara did, even though I knew the bottom line already.

So, yes, Peter's here, which is very nice. L.A. is colder than I thought it might be, which makes it even more of a functional airlock for NYC. Beverly is enjoying herself, and went off to the Getty Villa today.

I still can't sleep really well on my side, as it causes this pain in my chest that I'm sure is in a muscle but is uncomfortably close to where my heart actually is, so it's not a pain I want to be feeling in the dark, in the middle of the night. But I'm not as exhausted as I used to be, so I wake up after about four hours of sleeping propped up, and then toss and turn, delicately, for a couple of hours, until I'm good and tired, enough to tolerate the sitting-up sleeping again. At least after this I'll be very, very good at sleeping on airplanes.

Which reminds me, Peter and I are flying back business class--and not only that, it's paid business class, so I don't even have to dress nice and fly standby. The very thing that galled me about American Airlines, and made it pointless to achieve my fabu "gold elite" status, was that they'd reduced the biz-class fares to the point where there were never any empty seats left to get bumped up to. But now I'm actually benefiting.

Yes, even on my sickbed, I have been keeping track of my frequent-flier miles.

Last chance to enter.

The judges will convene at midnight tonight, PST. Get in your guesses about my hotel bill's bottom line in the comments section here.

And now I'm in LA. Mysteriously, it's colder than Santa Cruz. Santa Monica is sort of like the airlock before my return to New York: more cars, more energy, more people to talk to (all of the Moskoses are convened--or will be, when Peter arrives later today) and, luckily for Peter, more non-white people who don't ask you if you need help. If I'd had to fly straight from Santa Cruz to NYC, I think the culture shock would've been too extreme, and I would've had to double up on my anti-arrhythmia drugs.

Which reminds me, for all you pharmaceutical watchers, the Vicodin stash remains untouched but I'm back on the amiodorone, the drug that keeps my heart rate steady and makes things taste funny. (It also can turn your skin bluish-gray, and I've been noticing that on my legs. Creepy.) I was sitting in bed one morning last weekeend, minding my own business, when my heart suddenly went patpatpatpatpatpatpatpat for about five seconds, then went back to its usual drill. I'm jumpy about a lot of aches and pains right now, but that was pretty clear-cut: it was not supposed to be happening. It also made me realize that some feelings of "boy, is my heart rate fast, but I guess I was just up walking around the living room" from the week before might've been related.

Apparently it's a relatively normal thing to have happen, though, and now I have something in common with that poor lawyer guy in Texas, whom Cheney shot in the face.

She sure is purty

And I can't wait to see her.

Status report—and a shout-out to the nurses!

All is relatively good, health-wise. I have kicked the Vicodin habit, and slept through two nights without any pain pills at all. Well, not quite through—both nights I’ve woken up very suddenly with my heart beating a little fast and a strange anxious feeling in my legs that makes me need to kick them around. It’s very odd, and it takes a while to get back to sleep. Is this what withdrawal feels like? If so, I’m confused, because I thought it was more like Frank Sinatra screaming in a locked room and having his brow patted in The Man with the Golden Arm.

Speaking of brow-patters, damn but my home nurses have been wicked cool. Yesterday I picked up my last Bay Area drug delivery (unlike last week, the guy arrived at 2:30, just half an hour into the 2 till 5 window) and saw my nurse for the last time. I shed a silent tear, because Denise was great. She wrapped her thermometer in Saran wrap, in lieu of dedicated thermometer covers. She taught me how to take my own blood. And she dressed like a rock star—because she had been a bit of a rock star, and had funny stories about touring in Missoula, Montana, and her veggie bandmate asking for a garden burger at a cafe. (The waitress scoffed to a co-worker, “She may as well have asked for a piece-of-shit burger!”)

The home-care nurse in NYC, Brian, was also great, in a very different way. No rock star—just understated caustic humor. (Did I just imagine him suggesting that we dose our extra saline syringes with LSD and give them out at parties?)

And the PICC line nurse at UCSF was also fantastic, because he was able to insert my PICC line at my bedside, with minimal poking. Nothing like my first PICC line insertion. He was actually a little disappointed in himself, because he wasn’t able to do it on the first try, only the second, and he did something weird to a nerve, so that my middle finger felt all electric-shocky occasionally. But compared to the utter gouging I suffered on the first go-round, I was perfectly happy and thanked him profusely. The nerve thing went away eventually.

Speaking of PICC lines, it’s interesting to me that UCSF was completely copacetic with them, whereas all the docs and nurses in NYC seemed filled with fear whenever they looked mine. Just after I got mine inserted by the Butcher of Forest Hills, after I’d finished passing out and finally getting my blood pressure up again, the BoFH looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Be Very Careful. Always do this, then this [very confusing and rapid clamping and unclamping of tube, alternating with info about saline and heparin]. The nurses always screw it up!”

I was still dizzy, so I didn’t catch anything but “be scared of nurses.” So I was. And a lot of the nurses seemed to be scared of the PICC. At Manhasset, they had saline running through it constantly. At Mt. Sinai, I had to insist they use it, instead of the IV that was stuck in the crook of my other arm and stopped working if I bent my arm at all. And even the usually reasonable Dr. Gumprecht called the PICC “a loaded gun pointed straight at my heart.” Which it might be, but it’s better than the alternative, which is my heart getting eaten up by malevolent bacteria.

Which also reminds me that here in Cali, I get to use an “IV push,” which is a gigundo syringe that I just slowly push in over about 10 minutes—none of that drip business that takes half an hour and requires I sit very still and count drops.

But the coolest thing about my PICC line these days is that I can use it to draw my own blood. No needles. No having to arrange dates with nurses. Just take it and drop it at FedEx. It’s awesome. Thanks, Denise, and all you other rock-star nurses.

Molding Young Minds

I'm not sure if I should be embarrassed or proud: Over on the UCSF news page, there's a link to my half-assed yet positive review of my stay at UCSF. To think of all those med students reading...well, at least they know I appreciated the view.

The home stretch

Zora and Beverly will be leaving the charming if false paradise of Santa Cruz on Monday [other Ed.: uh, Tuesday.]. They will head to Santa Monica to stay at the ritzy Chez Moskos. I’ll be flying out to L.A. on the 15th. And then, inshallah, Zora and I will return to beautiful New York City on the 19th!

I’m also happy to report that Flappy, this blog, has been seeing a slow but steady decline in readership. While it’s nice to have appreciation for my informative (yet charming and witty) updates, there is an inverse relation between readership and Zora’s health. I dream happily of the day when the last reader drops off due to lack of news.

By the way, most readership happens during work days. I promise I won't tell your boss.

An eye-popper!

Tamara had a look at the 12-page bill. It’s a bit of an eye-popper.

Let it be known that she placed her bid before being offered access to the secret document. And she’s been sworn to secrecy.

Nevertheless, because it’s Tamara, Karl has been preemptively disqualified.

Don’t forget to place your best guess! Prizes await. Go to the post below and add a comment.

1st prize: Unused Vicodin.
2nd prize: One gen-u-wine medical I.V. stand (unless they reclaim it first).
3rd prize: A motivational spirometer (AKA: the “breath-o-meter”).
Runner-up/thanks-for-trying/everybody’s-a-winner prize: A couple of (non-sharp) saline filled syringes. Ideal for squirting friends and cats. Perhaps useful for brining birds. Guaranteed sterile.

I don’t heart Santa Cruz

It’s interesting that Zora is in Santa Cruz. I don’t like Santa Cruz. In fact, in all my travels in the whole wide world, there’s only one place that’s ever bothered me enough to write bad things about it. I wrote this, to no one in particular, around 1996 after spending 2 or 3 days in Santa Cruz.

I just hope Zora gets out before it’s too late. But I fear. I fear.

The Body Snatchers Invade California

Aliens have taken over Santa Cruz

Some people suspect there might be a few aliens living among us. Given all the billions of “people” in the world, wouldn’t it be surprising if there weren’t any aliens? And a few aliens can surely add to the rich cultural diversity of a neighborhood: a new-age store here, a health-food grocery co-op there.

Now aliens aren’t bad people. But there aren’t a whole lot in most big cities and small towns. And where there are many—in places like Madison, Wisconsin, or Austin, Texas—they tend to be good neighbors: low crime rate, active in volunteer associations, politically liberal, and they desperately want to get along with the rest of us. But it’s a plot. And it’s too late for Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz has fallen.

Santa Cruz appears to be a little utopia. As the “people” who live there are quick to tell you. In some ways it was everything: ocean, beach, water, mountains, nature, a downtown, bike paths, public transportation. There is even a choice in movie theaters and you can buy the New York Times.

To get to Santa Cruz, you have to cross a small mountain range from San Jose, South of San Francisco, California. For two days in February, I went “over the hill.” Alien are everywhere. But even in Santa Cruz there are a few real humans left—the crazy man begging for beer money must be human; so is the punk with his dog, guitar, and natty girl-friend—most are homeless on the street. The earthquake a few years back gave human employment a boost. Humans seem willing to take jobs—construction, garbage pick-up—that aliens don’t want.

Signs of the aliens are everywhere: the streets are garbage free, there is no graffiti, the people are clean, healthy, too healthy, too skinny, too white.

I walk into a store and a pleasant kid with a well-scrubbed face greets me. A little head tilt and the face piercing gleam seductively. “How are you today,” she asks slowly, caringly. Does she care? How much are they paying her? Maybe she does. She is cute. I wonder how old she is? Why is she staring at me? “Uh, fine. Thanks,” I say, trying to play it cool.

Her eyes haven’t moved, haven’t blinked. “If you need anything, or have any questions, just let me know. O.K.?” I pause, unsure. She looks so inviting. I’m sweating. I imagine when under stress, she gently exudes lavender essence.

Her eyes haven’t moved. It’s not easy, but I look down. That was close. I browse quickly, upset there’s no one else in the store. I don’t even know what they sell; I don’t care. It’s too obvious I’m not one of them. The cute girl pretends to ignore me, humming a seductive lullaby.

I leave, a bit too quickly, and stumble into the street. A few well-placed cars glide to a safe stop and wait. I’m not far from the cross-walk. I cut a diagonal, making things worse.

I’m on the sidewalk and the sun is bright. Why don’t I have my sunglasses? People look at me and smile as I pass. Why are they smiling? Why do they always make eye-contact? Flyers on the designated posting area advertise new-age therapy, massage, used furniture, music lessons, neutered animals. Good things all. Someone asks me for change.

Then I see the Bud Lite sign. Why didn’t I see it before? Aliens don’t drink Bud Lite. I run in, past the kids lawfully smoking outside. The beer sign buzzes a bit too loudly. It’s a greasy pizza joint. Why aren’t there more of them? I feel safe. I get a burger, fries, and a beer, then two. It goes down well. I sit far from the window.

There are mostly humans here. Aliens don’t eat deep-fried; they don’t eat flesh; they don’t drink beer. These are real people here! But they don’t see the danger. They’ve been here too long. I think of telling them. But I notice the crazy man talking to himself, or the ketchup. I don’t want to end up like him.

At night I return to my friend’s place. Oil lamps are lit and we eat vegetarian Szechuan food with chopsticks (no MSG, of course). Mineral water from the bottle. It’s time to go to bed and I can’t refuse. We’ve slept together before. But never in Santa Cruz.

It’s like “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I crawl into her comfy little loft and she gently touches me. It feels wonderful. Of course it does. I face the other way. Rain is falling outside. I don’t sleep. It is warm in bed. I don’t dare fall asleep.

In the morning I’m tired and drink coffee. Good coffee. Brown sugar “in the raw.” There are muffins of grains. Many, many grains. The weather is pleasant and un-noteworthy. So is the conversation. I taste nothing.

During the day, I am briefly left alone. I head for the highway, for “the hill.” It can’t be far. Cars zoom around me and I start running. Faster, running tired, very very tired.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Well sure it’s a little dry, but you can read all about Zora’s heart in the surgeon’s own words! Yes, the actual surgery report can be read here (pdf file). The description of her vision loss isn’t really accurate. Nor is the part about her suffering from migraine headaches. In fact, she kept saying she didn’t have migraines… But what can you do?

Sneezing hurts.

Ooch.

Tee-Vee

A few nights ago, Beverly and I discovered that the little dream house we’re staying in in Santa Cruz also has cable!

I know I said I could entertain myself without cable TV, but when it’s right there in front of me, I’m not going to turn it down. Damn, that Jon Stewart is really funny. (I sound sarcastic and jaded, but that really was the first time I’d seen The Daily Show.)

The weird thing is that after watching TV for three and a half hours, I woke up the next morning, and I swear I could actually see a teensy bit better out of my left eye. And then a couple of nights later I gorged myself on more TV (the original Charade was on—damn, that Audrey Hepburn sure is adorable), and the next morning there was perhaps another smidge of improvement.

By “improvement,” I’m just talking about being able to make out the silhouette of my hand in front of my eye a little bit more clearly, and to see shapes of light sources. But still...could TV really be the answer?

Your Chance to Win!

Ex-Flappy here. Now that I get to log on under my own name, I don’t get italicized. Though I know Peter loves italicizing. And adding smart quotes and em-dashes.

Anyway, status is good. I went on a mammoth walk yesterday, up and down the Santa Cruz harbor, through the gulch, and up to my dad’s house, with a stop on the way for a berry malt at the Foster’s Freeze. I’m not feeling any ill effects today, surprisingly. I’m also nearly weaned off the Vicodin, which I know some people would think is silly and a waste—but honestly, Vicodin isn’t any fun when you actually need it. Damn natural opioids.

So now that my stamina is improved, I have time to fixate on the smaller things: like how all the skin on my torso is flaking off. I guess they swabbed me very heavily in the OR. Also, how I have this gross knobby scab at the bottom of my incision, and it was growing out all curly-wurly, like a pig’s tail. As a copy editor, I thought of it as a comma, until I chipped off the pointy part. The nurse said it was generated by the knot at the bottom of my dissolving stitches—excuse me, sutures.

Other small details: the hospital bills are starting to arrive!

Here’s where the fun starts: Guess just how much my 12-page bill from UCSF comes to. The closest answer (over or under—this isn’t The Price Is Right) and you win...uh, a big bag of saline syringes...or perhaps a home blood lab in a box? I’ll think of something good. Medical professionals may enter, but may be disqualified—this is really an educational effort for those who may be health-care “naive,” as they say in the biz. [Ed note: Peter here. I posted about the 12-page bill a few days ago. It somehow disappeared… blogspot ain’t perfect. A damn good post, too, if I do say so myself. It included the bottom line and a few highlights. If you saw the post and know the answer, you’re obviously disqualified, too!]

Some specs, to help you in your estimating: total hospital stay was 8 nights, with 4 of those nights in intensive cardiac care, and 4 nights in a private regular room. Operating room costs are included, but I don’t think the surgeon’s bill is. To give you an idea of the facilities, see my hospital review on Roving Gastronome.

Hint: It cost way more than 8 days at the Waldorf-Astoria, that’s for sure.

Back in the days

I came across this picture of Zora while at Jim’s in San Francisco. Just thought I’d share. It would be from Zora’s senior year in High School. Go Monarchs! I’m including my high-school yearbook picture as well. This is how we would’ve looked if we had gone to prom together in 1990. Of course I was already in college in 1990, and it’s always a bit creepy when the college guy comes back and tries and sleep with the high-school girl.

Shopping in NYC

A little further insight into the difference between the New York and California shopping experience.

Flappy no more!

Zora writes:

Peter made the mistake of giving me his logon info, so now I can report firsthand on my fas-kinating health saga!

OK, not so fas-kinating: Antibiotics still not delivered, as the guy is stuck in traffic. [ed note: Zora is in San Francisco after her follow-up appointment with her surgeon. She’ll be back in Santa Cruz after her drugs are delivered] Tried to go buy more of the delicious cake from the other night, but the bakery was closed. Also attempted to exchange loungewear for smaller size, and it wasn’t in stock. All this during rush hour. Now twiddling thumbs chez Emily, where she has kindly left her computer out for me to use.

At least the earlier part of the day went according to plan. The doctor said everything looks fine (though I “might not want to go windsurfing yet”—typical Merrick understated humor) [ed note: Whoo boy, what a card! Merrick always cracks them up at the annual conference of cardio-thoracic surgeons]. And the nurse said I had a beautiful x-ray—the lungs were so crisp and clear they practically went ‘bling!’ on the image. She listened to my heart and said, “Gosh, Dr. Merrick is so good at what he does!” That would sound cheesy if she were talking about anyone else, but I’m happy to have her gush about me.

She also said my back pain (and, ahem, slouching to avoid it) was normal, a result of their having to crack open my rib cage and pull it apart. She also said that younger people experience more pain with this surgery—because when you’re older, your nerves aren’t quite so responsive. I guess they get jaded? Like, “I’ve told this guy a million times there’s something wrong with his back, but 30 years and he still doesn’t listen...I give up.” So when she put it that way, well, I guess I’ll just take more Vicodin and thank modern medicine again.

Red blood cell levels are up from 26 or 28 to 31.4, with normal defined as 35 to 40—so Tamara and Karine were doing something right. And I can stop taking my pacerone, which was a prophylactic for arrhythmia [ed note: Arrhythmia—an irregular heart beat—is a concern after heart surgery]—this is good because it turns out one of the side effects of that drug is that it messes up your taste buds. I’ve been having these occasional moments of ‘eeww’ while eating recently, so that explains that.

So, overall a good visit—it definitely put my parents at ease. But I can’t quite enjoy the positivity and Merrick’s “Eh, you’ll be fine!” attitude because the last doctor who said that to me (Gumprecht) was subsequently saying, “Oh shit!” when Peter called to tell him I was in the emergency room with a dead left eye. There’s also a small matter of one of the cultures they took during the surgery developing a little growth of...er, bacillus sirius? Something like that—haven’t had a chance to Google. All the docs agreed it was a lab mistake, though. Hmmm.

I’ll just concentrate on the here and now, I guess: I did get my little lung-tube-hole sutures pulled out. Gross. But the area hurts a lot less already.

The doctor says

Zora had her follow-up visit with the surgeon in San Francisco. I received word that all is well. But I don't know any more details…

So pretty you could eat them

I’m not hearing much from Santa Cruz, but I assume things are good if Zora is cruising the flower store for dinner! I just got this via e-mail from a cell phone.

And fyi, if you print out this whole blog, it's 128 pages long.

Service Restored

I posted one of these earlier, but it’s time to display the whole brilliant series, conceived of by one Dapper Dan. For the non-New Yorkers who may not get this (hard to imagine who wouldn’t get a reference to an NYC subway advisory, but anyway), the first picture (to the right) is a “real” service advisory.

Danger: Mines

To those who are just finding this blog and learning the news, perhaps your reaction is like Zora’s friend. He was writing Zora an e-mail, minding his own business, and then wrote:

Bleh. Well, I guess I'll go check your medical blog, and get all fixed up on your…

DEAR GOD, sweetheart, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?!! Jeez, I feel like I just skipped through a minefield and then saw the sign on the other side.

I like that metaphor. And I like to think we’re out of the minefield. It’s just too bad we hit one or two on the way.