Do Zombies Appreciate Taste and Options?

Recently when I was in a well-appointed but lonely hospital room, there was entirely too much time spent alone. I could neither read New York Magazine nor the classic “Devil’s Dictionary”. My incisions and various apparati did, however, allow me to over-process my family’s dysfunctional legacy, and stare at the different digital readings, mesmerized by the most minute of changes in blood pressure, pulse, and measures of states and symptoms (I know not what!).

I blame my preoccupations on the morphine and the highly-monitored and late night smidgeons of Fentanyl.

One such wee hour, after two full days without so much as a catnap or doze, I started expressing gratitude to the Universe for anything that would remain in my life … post both respirator and cracked sternum. Take for example my favorite television programs. My beloved “Walking Dead” and the others would likely not premiere a new season until I was fully recuperated. Oh, how I miss those zany zombies.

Riveting visions of walkers, in hordes, popped in and out of my imagination. Would our cast ever get out of zombie-ridden Georgia? Is it possible that Newt Gingrich, Hulk Hogan, or Raven Symone might have a guest “turn” after falling victim to this most crazed of SciFi apocalypses.

What would Jon and I do if hordes of these non-creatures invade Marklewood? Would Jon and I lose the fight? Would we become some amusing luncheon? I stopped to ponder that question. Now that I have a pacemaker, LVad, cable, and stents stitched into my body cavity, would I then be “crunchy” to Sparky’s “creamy”? Thank the gods of AMC kindly allowed me a summer filled with jiffs and meditations. I am certain that my ponderances will build towards some bizarre twists and tales.

Dunno. Perhaps it was the morphine after all.

(Image: “The Map of Zombies” by Jason Thompson, 2013.)

Facing Portals Without a Call Button

“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself? Longest way round is the shortest way home.” (James Joyce)
At precisely 4:39 this afternoon, that first glimpse of Marklewood left a lone tear to discreetly shimmy down my check. Moments later, Henry and I were cuddling on the bed, where I contemplated remaining through until morning. Is it mundane and obvious to state that my soul needs to luxuriate a bit after a two week Hospital stint at UNC?

Henry, however, had assumed Jon had taken me to visit Dr Sandra to get neutered. Now, the new LVad has him rather befuddled and quite busy. The unfamiliar features, on what he thinks is his new play toy, are well-primed for deconstruction, licking, and hours of healthy obsession.

Meanwhile I have yet to look in the mirror to review the return of “my old coloring” and inventory both changes and side effects of resuming daily Coumadin dosage, such as unfortunate bruising. Fiddle Dee Dee, the issue is my heart and its ability to pump, maintain a decent blood flow, and keep me alive.

I’m excited to be home after such a speedy recovery and look forward to new adventures. I do need to pace myself. Perhaps, I shall go to bed and slowly get under the covers, savoring what I have almost unbearingly missed. And allow myself a fully natural sleep, albeit with tubing coming out of my abdomen and extending to my LVad and its power source.

I’m home, dressed in my favorite robe, and with a big iced tea the way I prefer. I shall tomorrow explore the many portals of imagination here at Marklewood.

And return phone calls to patient friends and family. Yes, I am alive but (breathe deep!) still strain to talk.

Good night, everyone. Thank you again for your generosity of spirit and robust well-wishing.
Huzzah. Huzzah.

New Batteries and Proud Plumage

Shoulder bags and luggage in the steamy shower.
Tubes protrude discreetly from my ever-shaved tummy.

My teal world is now rather plum. The hues have blossomed. Wicked and haughty colors raise the dusty glass to cheer the new Vlad.

The Penny Road peadaddy has strewn figs and magnolia blossoms across Marklewood and harked an era of hope. Thank you, Oh gentle Dresden Dolls: I am no longer a coin-operated lad. A little thick and new pills of newt thwart new Petrol. Perhaps, “Run Four Life.then run . It’s all good. I’ve progressed to pristeen Persian rugs in unexpected resources.” You must simply find that formula that is you. The angels, Headless Nurse, and the nelly newly sober seem content with the candidates, but are still shaking nice guys from those silly libidinous mistakes and yet can rationalize and future prospect.

I must decide on my future now and am always willing: to meet new coworkers, study a new cast of carefully culled friends and “study cases”. I am fighting the sudden loss of all funding for the Auxiliary folk. At the least please bring us freshly-made lemonade to swallow those heavy pills. Those pesky and antsy constant hoops and hurdles provide challenging renderings.

I am usually scared of a midweek ponder. This time, I shall easily hold my ground and toast the non-ending plethora of ancient pines that secure me from the otherwise bothersome Penny Road Peadaddy.

It is indeed time that Tartuffe return from his incredible journeys. My DaDooRunRuns are all akimbo.

Ink Spots on My Slightly Tannic Collar

fun-and-nonsense_willard-bonte_1904-book_39-40_the-wise-pen copy
My mind is usually three or four chapters ahead of my fountain pen. And my trusty quill has a mere half hour’s lead on my hand.

Sadly, I believe that both my fountain pen and hand have caught up to both my thoughts and mumblings. The phrase “I am of the mind” seems to have lost much of its relevance and appropriateness these days. Pack more luggage, friends. The journey is just beginning.

My indulgence for May. Welcome. To. Shannyn. Someone surely phoned her ahead to warn her of my transfer. Her arsenal is both profound and deep. I expect to come home to Marklewood in three weeks, hatches battened and gown resplendent of cucumber, lavender, and mountain celery.

I shall return before the butter melts on the oaky nightstand.

(Image: “Wise Pen” by Willard Bonte, 1904.)

I Shall Call It A Sabbatical and Pour Some Iced Tea

I suspect that I’ll be getting up from a less than luxurious slumber in four hours. Jon and I will need to prepare for the drive to Chapel Hill, with my surgery to commence “promptly” at 6:30am. The doctor also said that they will not wake me for 24 hours afterwards, to jump start the convalescence process and allow for proper observation. I’ve never truly been to such an induced state as LaLa Land so at least that part doesn’t terrify me.

In other words, you probably won’t read anything from me on Tuesday or Wednesday. The LVAD implant surgery takes 6-8 hours, so I expect to be on hiatus from Tartuffe’s Folly until the end of the week.

There’s no telling what anesthesia they’re using but I wish I had it now. The procedure’s reality has firmly set in, along with the anxiety and fear of knowing they have to crack a few ribs. I’m also stressed that I’ll be in the hospital 3-4 weeks. At least Jon will have a rest from taking care of me for so long! By the way, Henry must know something is up; he has been glued to me all day. He has a phobia of not being well-stocked in treats here at Marklewood! I jest not.

Good night! Sweet dreams! You will find something from me in a week or so.

Unless, of course, I have internet capability while I am in LaLa Land.

(Image:“The Great Weevilwrought” by James Clowder, 2012.”