Yesterday AC had heart surgery. Up through the femoral artery, burn a hole closed, simulate a heart attack to see if it worked, rinse, repeat. The Sarge and I went to the hospital with the family and some friends. Scary. Not in the moment; in the moment you are bored, or anxious, or laughing at a photo, but cumulatively scary when I would feel my eyes well up or my shallow, shallow breathing. Frequent trips to the cafeteria.
It was interesting that the food there is more healthy now than my last time at a hospital years ago, but there are still those familiar cafeteria favorites -- tuna salad, chicken fingers, donuts in a plastic sleeve, macaroni salad. It was the macaroni salad that was comforting to me. Not too mayonnaise-y, but still exactly what my inner second grader wanted, replete with that strange, ever-so-slightly-metallic aftertaste.
No wrap up here, no understanding of the meaning of it all. Driving home from the Palm Springs Farmers Market today, I couldn't get my husband on the phone for a minute. Of course, he was at a funeral, but I didn't let that deter my worry. Gruesome, vivid, terrible fantasies reduced me to the edge of tears. When he called, we spat for a tiny second (not usual) then the relief came like a warm blanket. He called again minutes later and said gently, with amusement, "You've got to get your mind out of the worry gutter, baby."
So a bath, some dozing viewing of Eddie Murphy and a heavily-eyebrowed Halle Berry in the horrendous eighties snapshot Boomerang and a chicken pot pie later, and my mind is getting calmer, smoother, more relaxed. Back on the straight and narrow.
