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.”