Wednesday, March 30, 2016

managing

I have a bi-monthy appointment with a therapist, because -  well - wouldn't you?

She asks how I am managing.

Managing.

I am pretty good at that.

I am managing pretty well. Very well. I am managing most excellently.

Managing means things like: Are you eating? Are the clothes relatively clean? Are the bills getting paid? Have you completely forgotten to claim any or all of your children for more than an hour or two?

Yes.
Yes.
I think so.
Only once, and he was cool with it.

Rico is wiped out, but gets to daily appointments and aside from nausea and some serious fatigue, seems to be tolerating things alright. We are managing. We really are.

Living.  Now that would be another question entirely.

If she had asked, "How are you living?" I would not know how to answer that. Because had you asked us last year what living felt like, we would have said things like: Feeling the ocean on our toes. Laughing together until we couldn't breathe. Playing frisbee in the park. Planning road trips. Hosting parties in our basement. Having people in and out of our house so often that we can't tell which kids are ours, and not really caring at all. Dancing in the kitchen. Guitar playing in the living room.  Late night board games and brownies. A constant sarcastic banter in the background. Holding hands. Smiling - just looking at each other and smiling.

If she had asked me how we were living, I probably would have said, "We're not. We are surviving, but we are not living - not really."

Thankfully, she is good at her job.
Because the conversation went more like this:
"How are you managing?"
"Pretty well."
"Bull$#!+ - plus you know that's not what I meant."





Thursday, March 24, 2016

roots

There's nothing like a kindergartener's questions to get you questioning your roots.

When my mom died, I remember thinking, "Great - now nobody is here to tell me which of my dad's family stories are true, and which are complete bull$#!+"

When my granddad died, I instantly regretted not asking him about Normandy.

After my dad was gone, I realized I had completely neglected to ask him what his hang-up was about Norwegian dinners and Cherokee artifacts, when clearly, we are neither.

So by the time I was sitting with my grandma in her final days, I was prepared.  I had an entire list of questions, not the least of which was finding out the real story of that one dude who died in a plane over the ocean.

She still didn't tell it.

And believe me - that ain't the only crazy mystery floating around here. For example:
• Why is there a picture of great-grandpa holding a loaded submachine gun in the middle of a crowded restaurant?
• Where exactly does one purchase a South American jaggerundi for home use? 
• How does one get rid of it?
• Seriously - what happened to the dude in the plane?
• Is it possible that of Yoda's great-grandparents, one was fleeing the Nazi's, one was fighting them and one was helping?
• Is that the Titanic in that picture? Because for real, it looks like the Titanic.

So when Yoda started asking why everyone else(including her siblings) has grandparents, we decided to make a family tree.




We used info we already had, plied relatives to fill in the gaps, and headed to Ancestry.com to continue the search. Some things we knew, and some things we thought we knew - we didn't.

• We thought Rico was Greek.
He still thinks he is.
His mother spoke Greek.
But since the only trail we can find runs cold at his possibly mafioso grandfather - we can't be sure yet.

• We have a castle - a legit castle in England. It belonged to my mom's family until 1976.

• Rico's great-great grandma was named Hedwig.

• You can look at my granddad's boyhood house on google earth. Kooka calls it stalking. Since I actually went back, knocked on the door and asked to go into my own childhood home, I think these people should be grateful that google earth is all I'm doing.

• We have relatives who fought in the Revolutionary war.
And Civil.
And WW1.
And 2.
And Vietnam.
And how are any of us alive?


Feeling grateful, and nostalgic, I decided that the kids must try "the food of my people" - and it damn straight wasn't gonna be headcheese. Armed with a new aebleskiver pan, I set to work, creating the lone ethnic food I remember my own parents actually making. Well, what I actually remember, is something like this:

Christmas 1975: My dad, his eyes glittering with excitement gifted my mom with a Danish aebleskiver pan and two sticks needed to meticulously flip each little jam filled nugget.

Her mouth said, "Thank you", but her eyes said something like, "Are you effing kidding me?! I'm 24 years old, I have a part-time job,  two kids and you think I have nothing better or more interesting to do than sit over this pan for two hours meticulously browning your farfagnugen dumplings with a pair of knitting needles?!"

He made them himself.
Once.
They were okay.

My own kids thought the same thing. After an hour of carefully spooning batter and fruit into the tiny grease-sputtering, little pods.  Yoda declared it, "Not good."

But Rico ate ten.
Seeing as he consistently trumps me with his little Greek delicacies, and continuously complains that all my people know how to make is reindeer jerky and cold fish sandwiches, it feels like another minor victory for the Danish.


The first came when I took him to Solvang, California, and he begrudgingly admitted that pastries were one of the only thing that the Danes were "ever good at". I nodded to the statue of Hans Christian Andersen and corrected him. "We are good at pastries annnnnnd fairy tales. What more could you ask?"

As flakes of buttery creme pastry fell from his beard he mumbled, "Maybe a vacuum cleaner and a cure for diabetes."

Touche'. Score one for the Greek.



Monday, March 21, 2016

spring break

Usually by this time of year, Rico is so absolutely, completely, devastatingly stir crazy that it becomes impossible to stay in our house. He basically points to the van, and nobody even questions it, we just drive until we are somewhere new. It's rarely anywhere far reaching, or even terribly exciting, but it's not HERE. It's not the SAME. Because many of us, (but one in particular), loathes SAME.

This year he seems to be mostly OK with it. For now, "same" is the couch, a ride or two in the car, treatment, a few phone calls, a fistful of medication and sleep. For now "same" is alright.

As far as the rest of us go, we're trying to feel like spring breakers.

After obsessing about it for a month, Punk finally prom-posed to his girlfriend. Yeah "prom-posed" it's a thing, and if you're a teenaged boy, you kinda have to do it. Luckily he didn't have to dress up like a giant chihuahua and dance through the cafeteria or anything. (Though he DID promise her that when he prom-posed he'd want the whole world to know, so he'd engrave it on the moon - nothing like setting yourself up for certain failure right?). He managed to pull through with his artistic skills and sense of humor, and needless to say he now has a prom date.


While Punk stayed home with Rico and Yoda, Kooka and I took a group of our dancers to a convention in Minneapolis this Sunday. It's a weekend event with tons of different styles of dance taught by professional choreographers, and artists from New York, LA, Europe. We all had smiles on our faces when the jazz guy pointed them out for having the best timing in the room. We smiled a little bigger when the LA dance lady told them they were doing everything right. We actually cheered a little when the old Russian ballerina called Kooka up onto the stage to show everyone what "lovely technique looks like". But we cheered even louder when the lyrical guy presented Kooka with the "weekend warrior lyrical dancer" award for the whole room. It was a good day for Kooks.

Yoda has spent spring break drawing countless hopscotches on the sidewalk, begging to stay up later than she should, reading chapter books, baking with her big sister, watching 80's movies with her big brother, and basically reveling in the fact that we are all here together. She's also become very impatient on the whole Harry Potter situation. Apparently I'm not reading them fast enough, and while Kooka and I were away for the day, she decided to curl up in the beanbag and read book 4 by herself. I asked if she could even read and understand all of the words, to which she replied, "Yes, most of them but the book was so heavy that I couldn't hold it up, so I had to stop."

Yoda also got to visit the radiation room today. She was pretty excited to see the big robot that was going to fix Daddy's cancer. After the technicians let her use the remote to turn the giant machine on its side, and to slide the table in and out, she became very excited about the snack bar, where she shoveled down four saltines, and continued to ask how many sugars she was allowed to put in her cider.

The rest of the weekend was as lovely as it could be right now. Our neighbors brought us incredible organic fajitas, and our friend David stopped by with fresh, homemade New York Style cheesecake. We're not talking about the kind you just whip up with cream cheese - noooooooooo. We're talking about that stuff you have to beat fresh ingredients into while a cabbie insults both you and your mother; turn your oven on, then off again, then back on; have a rabbi bless it while your mother shouts in Yiddish that you're doing it all wrong; and wrap it in cold towels soaked in Rudy Giulanni's tears.

OK, I'll admit, I have no idea what makes a cheesecake "New Yorky", but Rico does, and he said it was just as good as anything he'd ever had from a NY bakery. This is reallllllly saying something about that cheesecake.

In case you're new - Rico is New York snarky about his food. I have an idea that if I took a fresh cheese pizza straight from Lombardi's in Little Italy, and set it in a Domino's box, he'd take one bite and declare it "garbage." Sooooooooo kudos to that cheesecake - you 'da real MVP.

Kooka wasn't home, but Punk also declared it delicious, as did Yoda. I took a bite, and while it WAS fantastic, I saved my piece for Rico. I haven't seen him that happy over food in many months, so I will gladly take a snack-pack pudding for dessert, if it means I get to see that smile again.






- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Friday, March 18, 2016

the good, the bad, and the ugly

Let's start with the ugly:



Who the actual hell created these things? In case you're unfamiliar, this is one of Kooka's robot babies from health class. She's named him Tyler. Not only is he annoying - he's hideous. Oh, and meet Tyler's equally attractive (but slightly less demanding) sister, Taylor.



Yep, of all 300-some kids in Kooka's grade, only two had the good fortune to draw twins in the health class lottery. The only think worse would be drawing crack-baby twins (yeah - also a thing - I don't know if they come with Gerber crack or how that works - but it's an option - so I guess we can count our blessings there.)


I was informed that if they started crying while I was driving I had to pull over the car, so they could be attended to.

Right.

I didn't even pull over the car, when my real kids threw up in it.

I get the point. They're trying to discourage kids from having kids. But these things are enough to stop the perpetuation of the entire human race. Kooka got nearly two hours of sleep. But as an extra kick in the @$$ - had this to say, "It wasn't so bad. If it weren't for the fact that there were two of them, I could totally do this."
Great.
Clearly the intended lesson sunk in: 13 year olds are better equipped to deal with life than I am. Auntie Yoda thought it was pretty great too. So much for discouraging teen parenthood.

Now for the bad. Actually, we don't know if it's bad - maybe it's good, but when the sign to your doctor's appointment looks like you're walking into Homer Simpson's place of employment, it can make you a little uneasy.



The actual radiation machine is a monster. It looks like something out of Phinneas and Ferb. But if it does the trick, we don't care if it looks like  Alien vs. Predator - we'll take it. Rico is slightly more exhausted now that he's started treatment, but he expected it, and, as always is a total trooper.



And the good -
ahhhhhh the good.

It feels like we are completely covered in kindness and compassion and love.

In just one week there have been "Rico Strong" bracelets, two dozen chocolate chip cookies, two meals, a handmade "Sara-quilt" that has been prayed over and blessed by an entire church, a "suitcase of happiness" filled with pre-wrapped pick-me-ups for days that are tough, an offer to participate in a benefit basketball game, leprechaun kisses and candy gold, offers to give our kids rides, some extra time spent with Yoda by someone she truly adores, cards, kind words, letters and hugs - reallllllly good hugs.


If you are reading this, we are grateful for you. Thank you for thinking of us, for sharing with us, for being who you are. Facing the enemy feels better when we have such a great team.

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

round one

Today was the first time it felt like we were fighting. Up until now there has been plotting and measuring, and preparing and training, but knowing that today we were actually gonna be taking shots at it felt pretty good.

At least it did to me.

Rico had a rough night. He was understandably more apprehensive than I was about today. It is after all, his leg. On the other hand, I was ready to go after it with Dr. Mayo's rusty spoon the day we found out. Though I suppose radiation is a more humane (and effective) form of treatment - even if they are microwaving your quads.

We consider ourselves extremely fortunate that Mayo decided to build their radiation treatment center three blocks from our house. I remember us watching the construction site and saying to each other what a strange place it seemed to be for a cancer care center (to be fair it is in the middle of a cornfield). Today it didn't seem nearly so strange. Today we have new thoughts about things. If someone decides to build a nuclear fallout shelter in the park behind us, while manufacturing parachutes and an ebola vaccine in our basement, we will breathe not a word, and welcome them with open arms.



The treatment center comes equipped with a mini bar of coffees and teas and ciders and cookies. There are locker rooms, big screen TVs, squishy couches annnnnnnnnnd the world's most depressing library:

I always think I should bring one of these home to Yoda, and then I read it and realize that that none of these books depict what she's actually living with - so we haven't read any yet. We'll see.



But the thing that really captures my attention is the bell. It's like the bell at Arby's - you know when Steve makes you a really killer beef and cheddar and you ring the bell to thank him - it's like that - except better. Ringing the bell signifies you are done with treatment. And it's calling Rico's name.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

living the dream

Somebody in our house has a Laura Ingalls obsession. Ever since we read Little house In The Big Woods, two years ago, Yoda has created a bucket list of Laura-isms.

Today, we got to knock another one off of the list - or into the bucket - however it is you do that.
 

 


Thanks to the ever-so-accommodating Rabe family,  we took a trip out to the Big Woods (yeah Laura's big woods - though several miles east) and lived the dream.

After we assured her that we would not see any wolves, Yoda stepped up to the challenge to drill and tap two sugar maples, help collect the sap from 25 trees, watch the sap boiling down and even tuck in to a homemade lunch of pancakes and bacon with fresh maple syrup.  The weather was beautiful and even Rico got to enjoy the morning with us (though he left the lugging of heavy syrup buckets to us girls).
video




I think we only have two more Laura items left on the list, unless you count building an outhouse in our backyard - and I don't.





Thursday, March 10, 2016

normal





This week was supposed to be a taste of normal - at least what normal feels like when one of you is in the fight of their life and the rest of you are rallying around while simultaneously trying to pretend it's not happening. (It's not denial, it's just the only way to get through the day without breaking down.)



Needless to say, nothing feels "normal", but there are a few things that felt good:



• One of Rico's dearest friends was concerned about his health, and seems to be doing better - so thumbs up for that.



• Kooka snagged a role in the summer production of Grease. She's one of the youngest in the cast and will be surrounded by wonderful college kids that we know and love - so that's another score. punk is a little bummed that his art scholarship thing conflicts with the show, but he decided to go to auditions anyway, just to see people he loves. It was good for him to get out of the house too.



• Yoda skipped today!!! Seriously - this is huge. For a kid born with gross motor delay, it was milestone. All three of the dance teachers in the room were just silent as she headed across the floor and then we erupted in applause. It's OK if she wants to deny her DNA and be a dentist, I just want her to be able to skip out to the nitrous oxide.



• Our kids have a great friends, and those friends have wonderful parents. We were generously gifted with two homemade meals this week, and they were the best thing any of us had eaten all month.



• Rico starts radiation tomorrow. I wouldn't call us "excited" but it feels like a step in the right direction.



• Your emails, notes on the blog and cards really do make our day. (No matter how inappropriate the wording might be). We actually got one with fair warning not to open it in front of Yoda - thank God we heeded it. Though it was a completely appropriate use of the F-bomb.



• Being at work feels right - at least for now. I was worried that it would be horrible and that I wouldn't be able to function, but I was wrong. I need to move, I need to see other people move. It felt great.



• Yoda has the best kindergarten teacher in the world. No, really. I don't care who your kid's kindergarten teacher is - this one is better. (The older two had me, and I still pick this one.)



• Binge watching Fuller House was a sweet reprieve from reality. Who needs Michelle? She was annoying anyway.



• My cousin sent personalized sweats so Rico will feel completely covered in any situation.



• Snapchat filters were #hillarious on the 17th floor of the Mayo building. Don't ask me why you can't make yourself look like a fat panda binging on bamboo anywhere north of Rochester, but you can't.



• Yoda wrote a thank you note to the doctors that felt much better than the picture she drew last week.



We don't know exactly what the road looks like, but we do know that we are in for a bumpy ride. Right now, I am trying to bask in the advice of one of my very good friends. She says a lot of wise things - among them, "You are enough", and this little nugget that she lodged into my subconscious about two years ago:



"Don't dwell there."

Bad stuff happens. Stuff you'd rather not deal with will come into your life. You can visit, you can let it pass through, but don't dwell there.

You can choose where you live - don't let it be there.

Don't stay in that place.

Don't dwell there.



Right now we are trying to dwell in your love and your prayers - your homemade soups and F-bomb cards. It's a beautiful place to live.

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

to rico

We should have known when our wedding took place in the ICU of United Hospital that crazy things were in store for us. (in case you're following along: full details here.)When Kooka sang this at our second wedding, it seemed appropriate, but now even more so.


And there's a long road before us,
And it's a hard road, indeed.
Bur darlin, don't fear,
'Cause I'll be right here,
To give you the strength you need...
And through the whole ride,
I'll be by your side,
Wherever the trail may lead.

You are my best.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

priorities

Clearly we have just one priority at the moment. Getting Rico treatment and helping him slay the dragon are at the top of the list. But the other things aren't quite so clear.

You'd think I'd have this figured out. Seriously - if a girl who has lived this exact same scenario and made it her life's mission to protect her kids from the same fate doesn't have the answers - who does?

I was in kindergarten when my mom got sick. I remember going to radiation treatments with her. I remember sitting in the waiting room with my 3 year-old brother being placated with Jolly Ranchers while my mom waved to us from the TV monitor in the nurses station.

I remember sitting by the couch when she was sick from chemotherapy. My brother and I not moving, not talking, just waiting until she woke up or until our daddy got home.

I remember not knowing whose house we would be staying at when my parents left town for treatment, or who would be there when I walked home from school. I remember dropping out of dance class because there was no way to get me there. I remember wanting to snuggle in my mom's bed and being so careful because I didn't want to hurt her and make things worse. I remember my parent's friends whispering a lot and nobody laughing anymore.

And those things would never happen to my kids.

But here we are.

I walked into Yoda's kindergarten class on Friday and she was sitting at her table drawing row after row of sad faces crying big blue tears with the words, "Feel better Daddy," at the top. I sat next to her and watched. The deja-vu of it was unbearable.

I still have my kindergarten drawings. They look exactly the same.

And the truth is - I do not know how to stop any of it. I do not know what comes next on the list of priorities.

I have missed all three kids school conferences. I have never missed even one before.

I fell asleep for two hours in the waiting room at Mayo. I barely hit the deadline of registering Kooka for high school classes. I still haven't decided which first grade class Yoda should be in next year. I haven't had time to read book-in-a-bag twice, and it's my favorite part of the day. I was two days late paying the credit card bill (Rico says I was technically on time, but I cried about it regardless).  I've missed a fair few days of work. The dog is overdue for shots. Yoda never has her shoes for dance class, she barely has her hair combed. The kids are overdue for dental appointments. I forgot to put money on their lunch accounts. I've cancelled two doctor appointments of my own, and I haven't been able to take Punk for his driver's test.

It feels like failing. It feels like doing everything wrong, even though I know better.

Logically, I know there are no right answers. But after decades of wondering why my parents did what they did, I figured there would be "better" answers. I just haven't figured them out yet.

There is another appointment tomorrow. So far we know that there will be roughly five weeks of daily trips to Mayo (5 days a week), followed by surgery. At least that's what we were told yesterday. Rico says he is going alone tomorrow - that he'll be fine this once without me.

I don't know if it's true. But what I do know, is what awaits little girls who draw sad emojis in their free time at kindergarten, and it is not good at all. That is the only thing I know for sure - so for tomorrow, that will be our priority.

Monday, March 7, 2016

two words

I'm sure someday we might hear words that sound even better. Words like,
"You're cured."
"Cancer free."
"It's gone."
"He's fine."

But today we'll take the two words the surgeon gave us.
Rico asked him straight up, ""Can we beat it? Can we win."

He said he's "Very optimistic."

Today those two words will do just fine.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

answers - sort of

Among things you don't want to hear on a Thursday afternoon:
"Let's just stay right here so you don't bleed out your jugular."

Rico had his right heart catheter this afternoon, and that was the advice we got upon his return to the room. No need to tell us twice.

According to the tests, the fluid is not technically caused by the cancer, meaning there is no malignancy in it. That's good news.

Apparently the fluid is caused by pulmonary hypertension. Not great news, but it's treatable.

The fluid needs to go - now.

There are several doctors here, but three of them have mentioned paraneoplastic syndromes, which means that actually the hypertension IS caused by the cancer, but only in the sense that the cancer wreaks havoc on your hormones, meaning if we get rid of the cancer, we could get rid of this too.

So we have some answers but no great starting points, so we just keep on.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

who I love

I love you Dr. Utz. You are the one person who looked at a picture of my almost-six-year-old, hugged me and said, "I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure history doesn't repeat itself."

You da man.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

wtf?

Right now my line between gratitude and "are you effing kidding me?" Is paper thin.

Since they've brought him in via ambulance to save his life, they have done roughly the equivalent of
Not
A
Damn
Thing.

It's true.

They have tapped an effusion and brought him breakfast in bed. Aside from that they have postponed his surgical appointment, put off his oncology consultation and said, "sorry about diddling around".

We understand postponing the appointments for a day or two while we try to deal with the heart thing, but they aren't doing anything there either. In theory he's scheduled for a heart catheter today, but he's been "trumped" (yeah that's a direct quote) twice, by people who need it more.

We understand emergencies, but not sure what trumps sarcoma combined with heart failure.

The nurses are great, but it seems that his actual progress is at a complete standstill.

It's like shouting for help when you're drowning and watching the lifeguards play Rock Paper Scissors to see who will jump in to save you.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad


Wednesday, March 2, 2016

love story








If we're being completely straightforward, this love story hasn't been easy for us.

It was born of two broken marriages, a long distance-relationship, required a cross country move and five different houses. Doctors told us our baby had died in utero, and two weeks later said "Whoops, she's fine." In the past 8 years we've lost 4 of our kids' grandparents to horrible, prolonged diseases. One of our kids became severely allergic to unknown substances, another required two biopsies, our house flooded, and there was a possum in our garage.

Yeah, I count the possum, because dammmmnnn, possums.

It has not been easy, but it has been beautiful because every moment has been filled with him. His voice on the phone kept me safe even from thousands of miles away. The little girl we dreamed of and wished for was buried in our hearts and then reborn again. I held him close the night his father died and he did the same for me. We've loved our kids through everything kids go through, and most important - he somehow got a live, angry possum into a little red wagon and pulled him over to the neighbors yard far, far away from me.

Every bump in the road is a bittersweet memory because he is in it. I really do believe that we are one heart, one soul, sharing two bodies.




Everyone has a love story, a glorious beginning worthy of shouting from the rooftops, so it is sometimes surprising how often we've heard people say, "Why is this happening to you guys?"

"But you love each other so much, this is so wrong."

"You guys shouldn't have to suffer through this - not you two."

I'm not sure who else they have in mind, but we do appreciate the votes of confidence.

They say his heart is failing.
They say his heart looks like this:






But I live there.
I know his heart from the inside.
It looks like this:








And it will never ever fail me.






- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

the things we root for

You know it's been a rather crappy week when you're actually rooting for heart failure.

That's our best hope right now. So far they have not detected any malignancies in the fluid they collected from his chest and abdomen. This doesn't mean there isn't any, just that they haven't found any. They are calling it pulmonary hypertension and will be catheterizing his heart tomorrow.

Our chosen family has stepped in brilliantly, staying with our kids, picking them up, feeding them, walking the dog, teaching my classes and setting an entire flock of nuns praying for us. It's been a blessing to know that I can be here with Rico to help him find answers, while our kids are being so loved.

And shout out to those super great teachers we had the good sense to hire who are covering some of my classes, and the super great kids (Kooka, Saija and Tori) who say, 'Teach a dance class - no sweat. We got this."

I know they do.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

I feel like I could sleep for a hundred days. At the same time I feel like I can't sleep at all without his feet stealing the covers and his head hogging the pillow. He is so beautiful. Even with his bed head and his hospital gown, he is just perfect.

I want Dr. Brooklyn back - the one from the ER. The one who says stuff like, "Let's just drain the damn fluid to get you healthy," and "My father in law had a huge sarcoma six years ago, and he fine," and "we might have to drain it a few times until we cure the cancer." Where the hell did she go? Why don't they put HER up on the sixth floor?

So far today we've heard eight "I'm sorrys" six, "we don't knows", four "we're trying to figure this out" nine "maybes" and one voice mail that said (among other things), "I'm sorry if my diddling around led to a delay in tackling this. Apparently it was more than I realized."

No.
Shit.








- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

good times

Today's tests are brutal:

An 8 inch needle into both his stomach and chest to drain and check the fluid.

Some sort of pulmonary test where he was required to breathe in some chemical combination that made him feel like he was suffocating for ten minutes.

They will know in 24 hours if the fluids contain cancer cells, but it won't clear him if they don't.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

if, then, what, why

Last night was rough.

After a day of appointments, Rico was ambulanced from the Mayo Clinic to the ER for a suspected pulmonary embolism.

Good news, there was no clot.
Bad news- his chest and abdominal cavities are filling with fluid and nobody knows why.
Good news - they should be able to tap out the effusions.
Bad news - they haven't done anything yet.
More bad news - this complication could push the surgery out another three weeks.
The worst news seems to be that despite all of this NOTHING is happening. No no medicines, no procedures, no monitors, they didn't even remember the damn squeezy socks to prevent clots until I asked for them, and that was four hours ago!

All of their sentences start with "if". And they all end with "then, what or why".

Is it asking too much for something to start with "when" and end with "now"?

Come on guys DO something!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

this place

Where I want to be, is inside every room with him - holding his hand, kissing his head, just being together. But lest we both be MRI'd unnecessarily, I am relegated to the Mayo waiting room for hours. Which means I have lots of time to wander.

This place has a wine bar.
A wine bar.
Not that I'd use it. I'm much more inclined to drown my anxiety in an Ativan laced butterscotch latte - which is also an option with the Caribou coffee right next to the pharmacy.
There's a joke shop, a couture baby boutique, a florist, an old school men's shop where you can buy a dress shirt for just $96. There is a chocolate shop, a bagel joint, some kind of crazy old lady shop where you can buy a $300 rhinestone purse shaped like a lighthouse (or a fish or a piano - pick your poison). I've counted at least four grand pianos, a barber shop, and an underwear store. There's "scrub your butt soap company" and a place where you can buy your own jazzy scooter.

But I never wander for long. I know they'll bring him back to me soon, and he is the only thing in the world I want.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad