"Infiltrative" is the word I keep hearing around here. It comes up after the doctors hold up three fingers. 1) Atrial Fibrillation; 2) Complete heart block; 3) The energy of your scans, how faint, what low velocity they have. These three factors indicate that some infiltrative process is going on. But they won’t, for sure, know anything until the results from the biopsies are back. On THURSDAY! "Well, on Monday, we might have some preliminaries back, but Thursday is the gold standard of results. That is our best indicator." It’s still a waiting game, and in the meanwhile, I’ve researched every single infiltrative cardiomyopathy (aka restrictive cardiomyopathy) I can find. And we all know, quite well, that Google is not a girl’s best friend when it comes to health, diagnosis, or her own mental sanity. And until the results are back, it’s all guess work anyway. And what’s the good in that?
What is good is seeing Phil joke. He presses the call button. "Yes, may I help you?"
"Yes, I have something for a nurse to pick up."
"What is it, sir?"
"Um, something for the nurse. Thanks."
"Yes, but what is it?"
"What is it? I just peed in a bucket, okay?" Then, I began to hum, "Dear Liza, Dear Liza."
Right now, he’s still in surgery, his second. They’re putting in the pace maker, which I’ll now refer to as "The Freshmaker," each and every time, while dazzling with a Mentos-like smile. I’ll put one on for him as soon as he makes it back to this hospital room. Hopefully he’ll be coming home tomorrow (which means I need a babysitter to watch the kids while I pick him up!). He won’t be able to use his left arm for a month, and he’ll be gettin’ the good drugs. "Where, may I ask, is my dose?" If it were up to me, we’d have a ton of family around us right now. We’d dope Phil up, and I’d cook a big ass Thanksgiving dinner with all the fixings, and he wouldn’t once have to think about the cleanup (or having to lie down and unbutton his pants). Certainly, I’d make him homemade mac n’ cheese, one of his favorites. So I plan to do just that. Phil says he doesn’t see the point in family coming, but when else does family come than in times like this? I want to move back to New York, or somewhere much closer to family that’s always ready willing and able to babysit… and eat!