Ok, Let's Try This Again...
Phillip's at home recuperating from his hernia operation. He slept most of the first day. Since then he's been on the computer or working on projects he can do sitting down. He's pretty much finished with a replica of a 19th century men's wallet. Also doing some hand bookbinding in the Medieval style. Now I can admit (at least to myself, Phillip and anyone who might ever read this) that I had to keep myself from dwelling too much on all those news stories about routine outpatient procedures that went horribly wrong. You know, there's some slip of the knife or screw up with the anesthesia and the person winds up dead or in a vegetative state.
There was one in particular I heard on National Public Radio. The reporter was a lawyer representing a widow. This was a woman who one minute's sitting in a waiting room wondering what to fix for dinner, when someone in scrubs comes out, says "I'm sorry..." and changes her entire life. Now she's being questioned by some lawyers who want her to give them concrete examples of her loss. Is she having trouble sleeping, what? She looked at them with this sad dignity and said, "I don't think you understand. It's like I was living in a room filled with bright light. Then without warning someone turned out the lights. And they're never going to come on again."
So I told myself, "Yeah, sometimes horrible shit happens. There's always some risk when you go under general anesthesia. And they did ask him if he wanted to make a living will. And he did sign a paper giving me medical power of attorney. But the chances of anything going wrong are pretty small. And Phillip can't just live with a hernia because I heard something on NPR. That's nuts." But I made sure before the operation to tell him how much I love him. We assured each other everything would be fine, like people do. We talked about the move to Washington and how the doctor needed to be careful cutting down there because we haven't had kids yet. And when I had him home that afternoon, safe and sound and stoned out of his mind on percocet, the universe was looking pretty fucking sweet.
There was one in particular I heard on National Public Radio. The reporter was a lawyer representing a widow. This was a woman who one minute's sitting in a waiting room wondering what to fix for dinner, when someone in scrubs comes out, says "I'm sorry..." and changes her entire life. Now she's being questioned by some lawyers who want her to give them concrete examples of her loss. Is she having trouble sleeping, what? She looked at them with this sad dignity and said, "I don't think you understand. It's like I was living in a room filled with bright light. Then without warning someone turned out the lights. And they're never going to come on again."
So I told myself, "Yeah, sometimes horrible shit happens. There's always some risk when you go under general anesthesia. And they did ask him if he wanted to make a living will. And he did sign a paper giving me medical power of attorney. But the chances of anything going wrong are pretty small. And Phillip can't just live with a hernia because I heard something on NPR. That's nuts." But I made sure before the operation to tell him how much I love him. We assured each other everything would be fine, like people do. We talked about the move to Washington and how the doctor needed to be careful cutting down there because we haven't had kids yet. And when I had him home that afternoon, safe and sound and stoned out of his mind on percocet, the universe was looking pretty fucking sweet.