“Where are you from?” asks the bartender.
“HELLó to you, too,” says the handbasket, with a slight accent…
So if you’re wondering why it’s taken me so long to write again, I’d have to agree with you that the joke above is not good enough to warrant the three-and-a-half-month hiatus from your eyeballs. My apologies.
In my defense, I have no defense. Not really. But, I will explain why I drug my pen. And yes, it did have something to do with drugs. Just kidding. Not kidding. One of those.
Let’s review. The reason I began this blog in the first place (August 2020) was because emails were an imperfect way to communicate with people, to keep those of you informed who wanted constant updates on my wellness, and not inundate those who didn’t. “Wellness”: a kitsch word designed to draw your attention away from the fact that there may only be a meager amount of wellness that I’m able to share with you.
Hey, guess what? Here we go again. Except this time there’s zero wellness to be shared. And I didn’t know how to tell you. I especially didn’t know how to tell you considering I hadn’t yet told the most important person in my life—who happened to be ten years old. Yeah. So, that happened. Go ahead and tell a child that their mother is sicker than they thought days before their eleventh birthday while trying to stay upbeat. Images of that “handbasket” kept coming to mind.
So, since I’ve told him, I can now tell you: My health is worse. Understatement.
Days before Phil and I had our important talk with Samson, the doctors told me I had one to two years to live—if I was REALLY lucky. It obviously could be less. I was about to start a new medication (via infusion) and it’s possible it could help. It’s also possible it could hurt. We didn’t know. This is what I told my son days before his birthday party.
Here he is at his first breakfast as an eleven-year-old with a mom and a waffle. That’s one lucky mama.
See? We’re upbeat! No handbasket in sight!
Then, days after his party we got worse news. I ended up in the ER and found out my heart was now compromised. I have right side heart failure—and I have severe pulmonary hypertension. I could have a heart attack at any time, and this was why my oxygenation was so much worse. I went on diuretics to get rid of the fluid pooling around my legs and ankles—and around my heart. And they told me flat out: If the new infusion treatment doesn’t help, then we’re probably looking at months, not a year or two. Helló fiery handbasket! Gosh it's warm in here.