My virtual countdown to that far-too-real day reminds me that I have four weeks to prepare. On that day, I will be admitted to the hospital to await my yet determined heart. It could be two months. It could be a year. Plus there is likely two months of in-patient recuperation after the transplant. A year? Mon Dieu!
I have tried for several weeks to accept this phase with optimism. I’d like to say that I shall make the most of the solitude, mediocrity, and the unyielding routines that prevent any REM sleep for over four hours. My hands are thrown high into the air above me.
Jon will just have to teach Henry to Skype. Speakerphones perplex him so I foresee a challenge. The thought of not spending such a timespan with my pets is terrifying on the side of dread.
I might be able to coax someone to smuggle a BLT from Merritt Grill. Beyond that, the “heart healthy” low sodium menu has me swooning with anticipation. Coffee. Tea. Blueberry bread. Decent salad dressings. My diet will endure the sticker shock while I remind myself that, one day, I will hopefully have a new heart.
I continue to not have much energy to complete even simple tasks. This very blog and Facebook are becoming too difficult. That’s where Pinterest and Twitter will come in handy.
Perhaps what scares me the most is that, regardless of timelines, Jon will spend a long, long time at home alone. He’ll likely play the “stoic trooper” card, but I know how that hand ends.
My mind is spent so I must close. I just wanted to stop by and say “aloha” and “shalom”.
The accompanying image is a portrait of Claude Monet while he endured a summer confined to a bed in a field hospital. I look at often now that I use it as a wallpaper image for my tablet. It makes me laugh.
I am just a tad envious about the bed size though.
(Image: “L’Ambulance Improvisée” by Jean Frédéric Bazille, 1865.)