Just Checking In…

Not well.

My old friend from Mill Valley days, Bronchitis, has pushed its way through the door and taken hold of me. (In Mill Valley our house was in a grove of dew-dripping redwood trees and I was constantly plagued with bronchitis).

I am sickabed on two chairs…

My son, my firstborn, is in the hospital 341 miles away, a team of doctors fighting to salvage his life.

No details now. The main thing is that my son is a fine man, a man eminently worth saving.

Bill and I were with him until a few days ago. But my brilliant banker granddaughter—who’d quite naturally settled into being Coordinator for Dad—began worrying about Bill and me…two more people than she needed to worry about. Naturally I offered for us to return home.

It felt surreal, at this lofty point in my life, ceding control over my son’s fate to his daughter. I mean, when someone mentioned what handsome legs he had, I smiled to myself and thought, I made those legs! But it was what we had to do. Absolutely right.

We flew home and I fell apart. Coughing coughing wheezing hacking coughing.

Thursday morning, Bill wanted to take me to Urgent Care. “No! No! No! I’m not ending up in the hospital. You get sick in the hospital…”

Yesterday morning I asked Bill to take me to Urgent Care. Throat was swabbed for culture. The doctor thought it might be Covid. “Did you wear a mask on the plane?” “Both ways, of course…” Thank heaven it proved not to be that nor RSV.

Last night I thought to send Bill to the liquor cabinet in the garage in search of brandy. I remembered brandy stopped the wracking coughs. Hadn’t sipped brandy for thirty years. Sent for a small bed tray. It was going to be a long haul.

Wasn’t able to give out Trick or Treat candy last night…won’t be able to sing in the choir tomorrow morning. But of course we’ll watch The Final Game of The World Series tonight. Go, Dodjas!

Meantime I lie abed and wait for news from Santa Monica.

I do wish to say that Saint John’s Health Center is an extraordinary place. It has an aura of goodness, kindness, professionalism, superiority I’ve never seen in any hospital. As we were walking out to catch our Uber to the airport, my wag of a husband said, “I want to die in this hospital.” Not funny. But kidding on the square.

Life is a crazy mix, perhaps you’ve noticed.

May Saint John’s please bring my son through this ordeal and send him on his way so he can continue writing his novel…again be with his daughters and sisters and brother and kitty and us…spread his quirky charm.

And I can return the brandy to the cabinet in the garage for another thirty years.