About All One Woman Can Take (And Two Words: It's Over)

A favorite morning activity: the lookout from the deck. My boy on the bench. My constant companions through all of this--I don't know what I'd do without them.

Oops. Been too long without mommy. Hey, hey. Let me in. What up with leaving me out here?

I need to come in, come on! (So. . . I let her in.)

Not ten seconds later: Okay, seriously, if you're lettin' her in, you need to let me in.

Seriously. . . Let me in. (I am watching her through the glass--camera in hand--she is not loving this one bit.) 

Of course my boy, he's all like, Yeah, whatever you sissies--I'll watch the house then--leave me out here!

Forget that, mom, I know how to open a door, thank you very much (thumbs or not). I'm just coming in. . . see my nose, now see me walk in all the way.

. . . And she did.

Finally. I am free of tubes, of infusion, of IV antibiotics being pumped through my veins every six hours, of the fear of the thing strangling me at night, (or of me rolling over on it to cause this beeping which scared me half out of my wits several nights), of the fear of the infamous nearly foot long tube running to my heart--of it rupturing and causing me to collapse instantly. Over. Now, it's on to oral antibiotics for ten days (still heavy-duty stuff), then another doctor visit--and back to not gracing a doctor's door again for maybe another ten years. And. . . working on my scar. Mederma, here I come. Really, it's not so bad, considering how I looked two and half weeks ago. The body is an amazing healing machine.

Aside from being too tired most of the time to do much--looking back, I did post a few meals and breads--but I'll be honest, they required very little work--and left me dead tired. And, Mr. Thyme had to usually jump in to do sous chef stuff, plus was usually left with clean up. My motor runs down about five now. This "being tired" stuff has been the worst part. I am a ball of energy usually. Winding down at night with TV and Mr. Thyme, the highlight of my days.


We are no TV zombies--in fact, the only time the TV clicks on in this house is after about six or seven--usually for Idol (or Top Chef when it's on) or our favorite Netflix fix. Currently, we're watching The Unit--Dennis Haysbert--wow--I'd buy insurance from him! We just started Chuck--we love Chuck!. We are Johnny-come-lately's with our TV watching choices because neither one of us can stand sitting through commercials. Two weeks ago, it was Night Court. Why? John Larroquette. We'd just finished off the entire season running of Boston Legal, I needed more John Larroquette. I loved Night Court. Or sometimes, we watch movies we rent from our local BB. I love movies (I like to spread the wealth around). However, I refuse to go to a movie theater--crowds, sitting, dark, strangers, loud people, children--it's a bit much for someone like me. So, my living room is our screening place. When I had to complete my "blog profile" and the old "favorite movie" question appeared, I was like, oh-for-gods-sake, serioulsy, who cares--and if they do, they have way too much time on their hands. So I list nothing. Same for music. Same for books. (I'm an English/Liberal Arts gal--read constantly: some books are good, some are great, some really should have never seen the ink dry.) Plus, all in all, is it really that important to you to know that I love some country music (Vince Gill and say, Lee Ann Womack) as much as I love Mariah, and Ryan Adams? Seriously, is it? No, I think not. In all honesty, this could all change next week. I'm fickle like that.

This weekend's movie picks included Extract with Jason Bateman--I love him. He is old school and of my past. I like to see folks hanging on like that. It keeps the forty-somethings (almost fifty) on screen and lets the world know--we aren't gone yet. Plus, no offense to those in the younger age bracket--you have not lived enough life yet to really pull off "on-screen charisma and emotion"--or pretend emotion. There may be a few exceptions, but the adage: With age comes wisdom--truer words have never been spoken--that goes for writing as well. Personally, the movie was just okay--in a quirky way--but I like quirky. Then, we watched A Serious Man, a movie by the Coen brothers. Nough said. They kill me. When the movie ended, Mr. Thyme was like, What the?! I laughed and said, You gotta love that! I have not seen every film they've ever made, however, The Big Lebowski is on my top five fave movie list--why (I'm sure you don't care)? First, I think Jeff Bridges is. . . well, too cool for words. (And I personally have loved him since the movie: Against All Odds--so I am not some newbie to his dude-ness or acting-ness.) Plus, in the Lebowski: John Turturro in this is like watching a car accident--you just can't take your eyes off him. He is so. . . so. . . I don't know--but there is something about him. I think he's underrated.

As yesterday approached and my follow-up visit ticked closer and closer, my anxiety level, paired with a hundred "What ifs" caused me to be a walking, talking "on-my-last-nerve" wife to Mr. Thyme. Not that he would ever say that to me, but I am pretty certain, he was as ready as I was to "get on" with this stuff. I am also a walking instant-cry machine. Some post-traumatic stuff. Pretty common given what happened. I've been so focused on not "slipping away" that I haven't had much time for the "emotional" expression to hit me hard. Now it's hitting me, usually right before bed. For the doc visit, Mr. Thyme had some questions of his own for him--and he was now ready to put them out there for answering. He'd been mulling over one decision (unbeknownst to me)--and doctor-to-chemist wanted to discuss said decision. That is why I love that man so much. He truly cares. But the gloves were off--time for some 'splainin'. This was not a decision this particular doc made, but rather another consult (sort of an arrogant fella--well, let me re-state: waaay arrogant)--my infectious disease doctor and attending doctor were both amazing and humble men--but this other one, Mr. Thyme was not impressed--so he put the question to nice doc. They discussed, I waited with my arm out and extended for "removal" of tubage, he looked at me and said, Oh, that scar's not so bad--it really isn't. I said, I'm good with make-up (I sold Lancome once) and will take care of it. It will become a new dimple in my face. In six months, it will be even less visible. So, the doctor said it looked good, that my healing had progressed and it was time to remove the "tube". I braced for impact. I was sitting there on that incredibly uncomfortable patient paper- covered table with my legs crossed, chin held high--holding Mr. Thyme's hand, him maintaining eye contact with me the whole time, saying to him: tell me when it's over. It's over, said the doctor, (like a nano-second later). I am like, What. . .it's over? And in his hand was this nearly foot-long purple PICC line that had been resting in my vein (where apparently, there are no nerve endings), delivering ever-so-rapidly, all the antibiotics I needed these past seven days--to get myself back on my feet. The doctor quickly threw it away and wrapped the hole it left in my arm with gauze. I looked on in amazement--just like that. He left to write my script. When he walked out--I couldn't help myself, I looked in the trash, to face the tube one-on-one thinking, my god, you saved my life--this tube and this doctor. . . saved my life. It's over. Almost.

I'm still tired. But I am going to resume my afternoon walking/running schedule. The doc said to take it easy. No running longer than a mile and a half. I was bummed. A mile and a half to a runner is like a walk to the mail box, seriously. (But, in reality, that is about how far I made it last week on my afternoon jaunts--I just had to get out--so I knew, my body was only able to handle a mile and a half--I just tucker out, plus the tube thingy.) I am so wanting to run that half marathon--it is killing me. So maybe I run/walk it? I don't know right now. I just know--I will have a whole new appreciation for the simple art of running, of the feeling of being healthy and able to move my body, one foot at a time--any distance.