I Shall Call It A Sabbatical and Pour Some Iced Tea

Posted on May 5, 2014 by Tartuffe's Folly

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.”

2 thoughts on “I Shall Call It A Sabbatical and Pour Some Iced Tea”

JE sides says:

May 5, 2014 at 11:36 pm

Good luck dear man. Good luck. I shall be anxiously awaiting word from you on the other side of the ‘sleep’ stage. My 5 pusses of Fairystone and I will be keeping you in our hearts.

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Marklewood at Serenity Lodge says:

May 6, 2014 at 1:06 am

Reblogged this on Marklewood at Serenity Lodge.

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Tartuffe's Folly

The sandbox is always open, my friends, for those that want to share eclectic musings, surrealist images, and aural delights. I detect the melody of the written word and can visualize the beat in the song. That's perhaps why I think in ringtones and post in sound-bites. But, most of all, I celebrate the moments and the small splendors that enrich our soul. My name is Mark Sieber, middle name of Dylan. But I answer to Vlad. The long driveway here at Marklewood is flanked by large bronze urns of yellow peonies & azure-blue lobelia. Behind it is a meandering creek lined with ancient willows. And if we run scarce of provisions, there is always the bait shop down the dirt road. My spirit navigates freely from that of Pied Piper to bookworm, from Lord Fauntleroy to that of a Bohemian crusader. You best pour a healthy cup of robust coffee or a glass of pinot noir. Kick off your dirty bucks and find a comfy seat. I am a disengaged designer, obsessive scribe, and perennial recidivist currently living in the hinterlands of Raleigh, North Carolina. Jon and I strive to be kind and to seek out those moments of hope that energizes the spirit that breathes both life and magic into Marklewood. He and I are both retired. Yes, we have pets here at Marklewood: a dozen at most recent census. I refer to them fondly as the Twelve Noble & Apostolic Pusses, but they are much more than any label or moniker would suggest. All are indeed rescues or "next generosity" progeny, with four having been elevated to "indoor" status: Henry, Pfluffer, Hermione, and Claudja. The other eight serve sentry here in the stillness of an ancient pine woods. Alas, poor Tartuffe has been missing since May of '10. Legend has it that he has embarked on some grand theatrical adventure, perhaps in New York or London's West End. But I like to think that his spirit hovers over head, and guards Marklewood against fear, dread, sadness, hatred and the small-mindedness that sadly taints and diminishes our humanity. Often, the most potent of inspiration is found in random human connections, unexpected art finds, and the magic that cloaks our world. "I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.” -- Arthur Rimbaud

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