I'm living my dream: live blogging. We drove to NYC this morning (record time: 2 hours, 30 minutes), arriving in our old neighborhood where there was no parking. We had to circle for a while, which, since we've become staunch suburbanites, was a major annoyance. We found a spot in front of a building that hasn't changed since we first moved to the 'hood in 1985. Its lower story is host to a profusion of biblical graffiti. Vaya con Dios.
We're visiting Dianne and Sandy and their son Jake. We used to live five blocks away from here so it's always a treat to come back and see what's changed and what hasn't. I'm happy to report that the tire store remains, but that's about it. Dianne was my caretaker the first week I was home post-transplant. She saw me at my worst: extremely low energy but still able to give cooking instructions. Dianne's not a cook, yet she'd signed up to cook for me and my family for a week, bless her. Adding to my physical debilitation was the verbal exhaustion of explaining how to cook things she'd never attempted before. Dianne did a wonderful job in the kitchen, but an even better job keeping me company when I sometimes barely felt that I existed, or felt inhabited by an alien. Which I was.
Dianne fell off a horse 2 months ago, sustaining a major injury to her spinal cord. After surgery, she transferred to Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York and spent 5 weeks in rehab. She's home now and doing remarkably well. Her husband Sandy, who also pitched in during my hospitalization, staying with the boys for a week while Marty spent time with me in the hospital, just asked how my other caretakers are doing, suggesting, if I'm not mistaken, that caring for me is a potential health hazard.
More later ...
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