Report from Jimmy

Dear Wild Women of New England and beloved elders of Hamburg, et al!

Jimmy reporting here on a beautiful sunny day in Albany. Our dear Tomma is resting peacefully, looking much refreshed although of course a bit weary from her ordeal yestersday, the warm, cloudsplit light of pre-spring (please God, let it be not much in the "pre" dept) sun makes her look even more beautiful than normal. And she looks much, much better than yesterday, I can tell you that. That was a hard day for her as I think you know by now.

First and most important news is that her pain has subsided to occasional twinges: no pain killers since yesterday at 4, much like her last visit 6 weeks ago. With the shift in pain as the dominant focus, she's able to consider the various factors leading to her next course of action.

to whit: this morning the surgeon who partners Dr. Timmins (it's not his turn in the barrel this weekend, he's with his family) examined our dear Tomster (male affectionate phrase) and said "We need to get pre-op tests done today, then make a plan to get them out. Let's not postpone surgery indefinitely this time, but get them out."

She will stay in the hospital overnight and Dr. Timmons will examine her tomorrow morning, then they will check their surgery schedule to see when she might be able to have it done.

This isn't to say she has decided completely to do that. She realizes that she can go home, continue to do her personal therapies and remedies and hope to have continued progress. But she also knows she is likely to have another attack of pain, and this was a very sobering experience for her yesterday, as she believed that was behind her. These nasty little puppies can flip over and torse (twist) at any time, apparently, and the experience of that pain is something she's not all that willing to go through again. Duh!

So I'm not mischaracterizing her mood or mine either for that matter to report that surgery seems like a more viable and attractive option (as much as it can be attractive, that is) than it did 6 weeks ago. And that's the way she's leaning at this time.

Once she's had more tests (chest X-ray and EKG) to assess her robustitude (my own word) for surgery, then it's just a matter of the "shedule" (for those of you of the Brit persuasion.)

The EKG nurse just walked in with her mobile EKG telecenter. Pretty neat. she did the entire procedure in about 4 minutes, about as long as it took me to type in the two paragraphs above (and I'm a fast typist). She was a 50-something, bleach-blond, tired seeming (smoker?) lady who had that breezy but detached demeanor you might expect at a turnpike diner, someone who has been there a lot of years, has seen it all, and gives you the best she's got at the moment.

She said "Looks good" after the EKG and rolled off down the hallway to her next stop.

I ask Tomma how she's feeling now. "Between 1 and 2" she says, describing her pain level, "stomach a little empty", chewing on her cod liver and primrose oil gel caps. She loves to chew on those capsules. Most of us swallow them down and that's quite sufficient, but I think she enjoys the bouncy rubbery workout the gel gives her jaw muscles.
Now the nurse, Bob, a stocky fellow in his late 30s-early 40s with a very short crew cut and the slightest sibilancy in his speech, comes in to tell T it's time to go down for her chest X-Ray. He demonstrates his caring professionalism when we ask if the timing (it's lunch time and the meals are arriving in their stacked carts in the hall) means she'll miss her meal.
"If it comes before you get back," he says, eyes rolling up as he runs through the options at his disposal, "we'll take care of it." I pipe up that I can always run down to the cafeteria and bring something up, if that's hospital-legal, and he answers, "Oh no, no problem, I can always order something up any time. Now you wanted vegetarian," he says, turning to Tomma, "if possible, right?" she nods and he moves out after promising to do his best to get her the meal she wants. Good guy.

Tomma stands up to go to the gurney in the hall for transport down to X-ray. There's a thin red line of blood backing up from the IV insertion point ,under the tape on her arm, to the connector...Bob had just unplugged the IV. It reminds me of the thin spidery veins I've seen in photos of fertilized chicken's eggs, or maybe it was human embryo in the earliest stages. How infinitely fragile and incomprehensibly complex our biology is and our human lives are. And how far we have to go when we still live in a world that sends our young to savage places to have that fragile biology smashed and ruined, in the name of...what, really? Why is that ever an option? We all begin as spider veins in yolks, such a miracle, to be thrown away with such a lack of resolve to say "No. No, never again."

Back to Tomma: She's standing up, takes a step or two, bends down. "Whatsa matter?" I ask, my characteristic leap-to-the-rescue response to anything out of the ordinary - she makes fun of me when I say that - and I reach out to support her, thinking she's maybe suddenly ill or in pain. "Just getting my slippers." She steps into them, I walk her to the gurney, gently admonishing her to ask for things instead of always doing everything herself. "That, m'love, is what I'm here for. Let yourself be pampered. I don't have anything else to do here anyway, I'm bored out of my skull."
She nods, her way of acknowledging me without necessarily agreeing with my point of view - our dear independent minded Tomma - and once prostrate again on the hall gurney, about to be ambulated by the thin, short Indonesian who asks, in broken English, "Is alry she walk to here?" (meaning the gurney, which she's already walked to of course), she starts to tug at the heel flaps of her slippers, then lets me finish the job of pulling them up over her heels.
That's my big contribution as she wheels off down to Xray, whilst I stay here to guard the grapes and food supplements that I brought in this morning. The grapes may be purloined though: she doesn't like them, whereas I find them absolutely yummy. And in the absence of mobility and activity, I never lose my interest in tasty food.

Speaking of which, Nini is fine at home. I laid in a stock of comestibles from Hammer...Haver? fords on my way home last night. Very nice supermarket with a lush produce section and lots of alternative foods, plus a killer frozen food section, the temporary bachelor's refuge from actual menu decisions and preparing activities.

Nini's recovering from a nasty bug that got into her ears, she's taking antibiotics. She helped out yesterday by feeding Jackie and keeping the fire going and seems to take to having the house to herself just fine. Nini's never seemed to feel abandoned or deprived much by being home on her own. I told her if she wanted to have her boyfriend over today, if he could get a ride, then I'll take them both to school in the morning, and all that would be fine as long as they were both feeling better. They don't need to pass their illness (he's been sick with a serious lung infection for weeks) back and forth as much as their hormones might urge them to do. So Nini seems just fine.

And that dear readers is your mid day Sunday report from room 6202-B, St. Peter's Hospital in Albany, NY. Skip over the boring parts, take heart in Tomma's good cheer and ruddy color and bright blue eyes, and smoke 'em if you got 'em. I mean, call if you like, here's her number again at least through tomorrow: 518 525 7499.

Have a great Sunday and thank you so much for your support. I think you know how much it means to her. It's like a life force giving her energy. If nothing else stays with you from this long missive, let it be that.

Love from us both, bon voyage to the Antigua-ettes, and to paraphrase Garrison Keillor, do good play and keep in touch.

your field reporter Jimmy von Krankenshortz