Are we there yet?

 It's your bi-annual update. The minutes of Dom's recovery for investor's of a heart kind.

The 7th anniversary of Dominic's transplant, considered a re-birthday in transplant circles, came and went on Thanksgiving day this year. How apt.

I anticipated the day, and then it completely slipped my mind as I ate copious amounts of delicious food. On the day of thanks, one of the things I am most thankful for slipped my mind. I blame the pumpkin pie cheesecake. Not the tryptophan as I do not eat turkey.

One thing that weighed on me as the day approached is how grateful I am not just for Dom's extended life, but for all the love that was showered on us, and all the practical gifts of financial aid and the handful of people who made food for us. I found myself randomly composing thank you notes in my head these past few weeks. It's been over seven years now, but the impact lasts a lifetime.

This year hit a little different. We lost Dominic's mum in October, which is also the month we lost his sister in law Alison, just two years before. Dom did not have the energy to make a trip overseas for her service. That reality was something we'd talked through long before we lost her. We are grateful for the wonders of modern technology which allowed him to have conversations with his brother in the UK and sister in Qatar at the same time. It was so lovely hearing everyone, including Sam's husband Phil and Nick's daughter Hannah chatting and sharing stories about Ma and about moving forward.

So, it's not really that the anniversary slipped my mind; it's really that the days have been flying by. I always stop looking at numeric calendar days around Thanksgiving, just knowing, I have to be ready for a feast by the fourth Thursday of the month. And we were very ready this year.

My little reports in June are always full of so much anxiety for the fire season ahead, and come November, (now December), we've had rain, the brown fields have turned green, and the venomous snakes have mostly gone into hibernation. We celebrate giving thanks and fill the house with twinkly lights. It's my favorite time of year. It always goes by too fast. I try so hard to just sit in the season, and let it all soak in.

We're still in the June of Dom's recovery. Every 3 weeks, we go for his treatment and tests, and adjustments are made and there's talk of more frequent treatments and different therapies. I log onto his on line medical records and scan the test results. I live in anxiety that the protein count that indicates how his kidneys are functioning will have bolted again. There's been threats of putting him on a regime that would require weekly visits again, and I fret. I don't think I can do that again.

I'd find a way, if I had to.

But, we're ready for the post rainy season. We're ready for Dom's recovery to be that once a year visit Dr Carroll thought we'd transition to by now. We're well past that period. We're ready, but not there. 

So we continue to do what we can. Someone once said to me if her husband wouldn't do all the social things she loves to do, she didn't know if her marriage would last. What you do is, you adapt. You bend and flow. There's nothing I want to do without Dom at my side. We don't really feel like we're missing out, we're living to the fullest as we're able. And, I'm so grateful for the friends who have bent and adapted with us. It's such a tremendous thing to be so cared for.

And to be able to do it here, on the secluded property where we live, in beautiful Sonoma County, is a wonderful thing. 

We had a lovely visit with friends from Georgia in October. We have comfy outdoor furniture and amazing views and just enjoyed the time together. That visit was followed by my brother and his wife. We'd worked so hard to get the barn space ready for the first visit, it was a breeze by the next. (And our first visitors did a lot of the heavy lifting for me). Then Charlie, who owns our home, came for a visit and we had a gathering to celebrate his daughter's birthday and catch up. 

It's the most company we've had since Covid hit. With his compromised system, we're still very protective against viruses. We're generally open to visits on pleasant days, as we can sit outside and feel a bit safer.

Dominic is still extremely fatigued. He can do things throughout the day, but they're done slowly and with naps. I realized just today that I've had a weensy bit more energy. When we came home after the three month hospital visit, I was a mess. I needed daily naps as if I were the one getting treatment. But, the all night beeps and the worry and the driving were more than a full time job. It's nice to feel a little better. Dom feels a little better as well, but, the reality is, a little better is still not well.

We've made it through another "fire season". The last month of summer and first month of Autumn, we're on pins and needles. When the 2017 fire burned my Mom's house to the ground, it shocked me how little there was left. I've seen house fires here and there. Sometimes, you can't even tell there is damage, except some windows are boarded up, or there's a black singe on a wall. Sometimes, there's a big black hole, but the rest of the house looks pretty intact. I'd never seen the likes of what happened in 2017. What remained of her home was a pile of ash and a shower stall. On a bad day, that feels like what remains here as well. Maybe, if he'd only had Leukemia, he'd look like that house a little boarded up, but mostly intact. This gvhd has been a house fire that has been all consuming.

But Phoenix rise from ashes, not boarded up windows. 

So Dom is returning to himself little by little. He's been drawing every day. He made charcoal to sketch with. He questioned if it would be okay to have a fire after it rained a solid week with absolutely no let up. They call it a bomb cyclone these days. It results in an "atmospheric river" that means a lot of water is dropping in a short amount of time. I breathed a sigh of relief and proclaimed it certainly would be okay if he made a fire outside. I'm thinking a few more this season, just to mix it up. We can unplug from Netflix and bundle up with with the view. 

He's still shepherding the chickens from our ever present bobcats, coyotes, and sly foxes. We love our silly girls and love for them to find slugs and snails amongst the garden areas.

We got a hot tip from a friend that the Northern Lights would possibly make an appearance, so having missed them the first go round, we hopped in the car and made the journey about an hour north and we ticked something off the bucket list. It was such a treat to see them. Perhaps they weren't as dramatic as further north, but they were here and they were mine.

So, we're doing alright. We're on a journey we never thought we'd be on. We also never thought we'd see the Northern Lights all the way down here. But here we are. Taking things as they come and cherishing what is good.

PS: The wonky pool table is open for non-serious pool. 

And this kitty is open for scratches if he's not recovering from a big hunt.

 

 

It Was Seven Years On Saturday

 

It was seven years on Saturday. Seven years since we went to urgent care hoping for an easy answer and instead finding ourselves on the receiving end of a fire-hose of information. The past six years, I have anticipated this day. Marking time. I have thought about how I would mark it in a way to share with others who care to know how we're doing. This year, my thoughts just wouldn't rise to the surface. The day came. The day went. We pushed through. My brain could only emit a steady hum.

But then the thoughts started coalescing. An inspiring piece I read here. A nest of birds taking flight there. The things my heart wants to share are all there, just under the surface, swaying like sea grass and occasionally illuminated by sun piercing through water.

This morning kind of threaded the needle to bring a patchwork of ideas together.

Where to begin? Dom remains pretty much the same. I feel like a broken record here. He struggles to breathe. Walking is an issue as he struggles. He still suffers stomach issues on occasion and eating is not always desirable. He's lost a bit of weight again. It's sometimes difficult to center our thoughts. Is his pain normal or disease? Is his fatigue expected or disease? He wants to be productive and yet, his energy is finite. I push him with a paradoxical message. Do more. Don't do too much. Rest. 

We've been working hard and resting hard.

I've been reading different pieces that share a theme of wonder. Annie Dillard says (paraphrased) how we spend our days is how we spend our lives.

Alexandra Horowitz wrote a book On Looking: Eleven Walks With Expert Eyes. Reading a synopsis, the book is geared toward urban dwellers who are wrapped up in the grind and it's meant to encourage people to see things they may miss in the hurry and scurry. She takes the same walk with different experts and sees through their eyes. It's on my list to read. But it's just one of many pieces I've encountered on this theme of wonder and the humble question of the meaning of life.

What is the meaning of life when one's life has been so pitifully upended? What would you see if you were forced out of the paradigm of finding purpose through children and career, and achievement? People who claim to know the meaning of life still pursue family and career and achievement. Whether they be Buddhist or Christian, I don't know many people who just are. The Christians will tell you their sole purpose for being here is to worship God. The Buddhists will tell you it's enlightenment. And yet, I still see the hurry and scurry among them. I see the worship of family and achievements and the quest for more. There is no judgement. There is only a gratefulness on my part that at the end of the day, the way I spend my days, is how I spend my life. And it feels right and good to spend them in wonder.

We had a pair of House Finches build a nest in a bicycle helmet hanging from a barn rafter. She laid four eggs on Mothers Day and exactly two weeks later, four creatures emerged. They're not very cute those first few days. You'd hardly know they're alive if you couldn't observe feeding time. Another two weeks and one day later, the first baby vibrated right in front of my very eyes and took flight. The next day, the other three found their wings and the nest was empty. We altered our habits for one month. We left the barn doors open with a gate to deter skunks and such. We marked the calendar to keep kitties away when babies would be fledgling.

I photographed every other day and thrilled over each change. I ponder how four weeks is enough time to go from egg to flight, while I'm over half a century and have yet to find my own wings.

We've lived together in the same house for ten years now. I've been here nearly 30. We still get up for the bobcat. The rabbit. The buck or the doe. Whatever we see from our couch looking through the picture window, we go to the window and watch. We pause what we're doing. We pause the idiot box. We pause the conversation. We pause the cooking. We are always keen to see the passersby.

Dominic called me to the front window the other day. A giant buck was emerging from under the deck around the pool up the hill. I'd have to crawl on my hands and knees to get under. I couldn't believe a 4 or 6 point buck could tiny himself enough to crawl under. But he did. And I was fortunate enough to see him going under the next day. He runs across the field like he's got to clock in to work on time. I follow him with my eyes and as if by magic, he has disappeared under the deck. I don't think he's working. And I'm a little jealous as I tap away at the computer for my job. And I'm grateful I have both the environment and the eyes to see. 

I think we're a bit like a person who loses sight or vision. The other senses get stronger. I think, and I could be wrong, when you lose all the world holds up as success, your sense of wonder gets stronger.

I started this little essay with an entirely different thread in mind, and just like that, I stitched together something much different than I envisioned. You see, the events that inspired me to write are the things I most fear. Yesterday, I nearly weed whacked a rattle snake. It was coiled in a little cave of dry grass and looked very much like a cow pie to me. Except we have no cows. I went and got a broom to give a gentle little nudge so I could see its face and all I got was a tongue flick. It was so relaxed and camouflaged, I had no idea if it was a deadly venomous snake or a much desired (rodent eating but not venomous) King Snake. My neighbor came with her snake stick and lifted it out of the grass revealing a very fat snake, With rattles. How brave is she? 

I have a lot of anxiety about venomous snakes. I have a lot of anxiety about wildfires. And, just hours after my snake encounter, the skies darkened and my eyes and throat began to sting. A wildfire just 20 miles or so north harkened the very early arrival of "fire season". Two of my biggest fears came together on the same day. I thought about how summer is a very anxious time for me. It marks the beginning of Dom's health odyssey. The transition is tricky for me and I don't know why. The nights are cold and the days are hot. Summer is not my favorite time of year and I find myself counting down the days until the rain returns.

How funny that the next morning, social media would remind me that nine years ago, I also met a rattlesnake. Little did I know that almost summer day how very much I would and could endure.

And I realize as I meandered through the deep sea grass of my thoughts, that though summer makes me anxious and life is so much different than I thought it would be, I have a heightened sense of wonder that makes life so beautiful. And I cherish having a partner who delights in the small things with me. Perhaps you are gifted with worldly success and wonder. Perhaps you are very fortunate indeed. But, if my greatest achievement in life is counting the days between an egg and flight, who can fault me?

 

Alexander moves to Australia (or Iceland)

 

 

Having always been enthralled with Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, I like to laugh at the absurdity of bad days. Or weeks. Or years. Because, if you know the book, there's always Australia (or Iceland). 😉
*Please, only read this with a sense of humor* No sad faces please.
Wednesday was our 10th anniversary. Yes! 10 years. 7 of which have been dealing with disease, doctors, hospitalizations, and finally, the dreaded Covid. We're waiting for our prize.
We've been squirreled away. Limited contact with the outside world. We're a little feral.
We got very excited about a restaurant getting rave reviews for its gluten free pizza. Dom had just lamented ever having a good pizza again given his restrictions. Then I heard about this place. It has an expansive patio, and we thought we'd risk it for lunch. And if it was too risky, we'd have a picnic nearby. (Dom is still high rick for Covid and Measles as well.)
I packed our cooler with drinks to be prepared.
I pulled out a summer dress I'd bought at Christmas and had tucked away for warm days. I was so excited to have an occasion to wear not just a dress but the dress I'd pined for, for some time before nabbing it in an outrageous sale.
I slipped it over my head and noticed as it shimmied over my shoulders, a giant hole in the back.
A brand new dress kept in a protective bag. Damaged.
I'm a sensitive sort, and it was difficult to not feel a lot of it's not fair. Life is hard. Why me. Over a dress. But wait.
We hopped in the car, sun shining, smiling, anticipating our first date in 7 years. No really.
And then, the car died at a full stop. Huh. I must have stalled it. (Proud driver of a manual here.) Only. It happened again at the next stop. And again. And so, we turned home,
The next day we'd have to be in Sacramento for Dom's treatment. We didn't have time to take the car to a repair shop. Dom did a little research. Went with best case scenario. Fiddled with the oil dipstick, heard a pop, drove up and down the drive with no problem. We decided he'd fixed the problem. Anyone who thinks we're negative nellies does not know the amount of positive thinking we exert on the regular. But our denial/positive thinking got us to Glen Ellen before I ruefully turned the car back toward home.
Mom raced from her house 40 minutes away at the ready and we made it to the appointment just an hour and a half late. Because here's why we didn't cancel our appointment: Dom is their favorite. There was a training happening and they always juggle Dom in on those days because he is so easy going and has the best veins. It's a thing.
And here's why I don't want any sad faces. I got to spend time with my mom and in Ikea. We had cinnamon rolls. (Nicky's are a billion times better, but when in Rome.)
We were an hour and a half late, but only half an hour later than usual headed back home. Neat how time works.

 

We got home to no internet. Someone accidentally cut it. I had a bit of work to catch up on, but had to postpone. I was so frazzled by Friday. I got up early and fed the chickens. A task Dom is usually happy to do. I wandered down to the fish pond/tank after feeding, as it always makes my heart happy. (This is an old photo being enamored with the fish.) On this morning, it did not make my heart happy. The barn is being painted and having minor repairs. Woodpeckers have been tucking acorns in the roof. Someone scraped the acorns out only to fall into the pond. The tannins would leach out and kill the goldfish. I immediately began fishing out acorns and detritus, bailing out water and giving it a spring clean. And we laughed, because what else am I supposed to do without the internet?!
I was feeling real sorry for myself Wednesday, as we were supposed to be celebrating our anniversary.
But by Friday, having run back and forth between house and barn cleaning the tank, fixing the internet, (we currently have 100 feet of cable running across the drive connecting me to you), I didn't have the energy to feel much of anything but grateful for the tub of ice cream in the freezer and the husband I would still say yes to, even knowing what we'd be in for.
The dress is being exchanged.
We have the $ to repair the car. (Rats are chewing through wires. Ugh. Country living!)
We made it to the doctor.
The internet is (mostly) running.
I'll get more goldfish.
We'll get to that restaurant.
*Dom is still with me.*
The traditional 10 year anniversary gift is tin or aluminum symbolizing resiliency. Maybe I'll start calling Dom my tin man. Only, he does have a heart. And that my friends is what it's all about.

This photo was captioned: Sometimes when you're on your knees pulling weeds near sunset and you look up.
 

Liminal spaces in Haunted Mansions

 Dom and I have been in a liminal space for quite some time now.
Liminal is defined as occupying a position at, or both sides of, a boundary or threshold, by the Oxford dictionary.

Warning: this will be a rather esoteric or existential musing. I can’t promise anything here but my rambling thoughts.

Liminal spaces are sometimes described as hallways. It’s the transition from one space to the next, but it’s not the destination. It’s just the space you occupy to reach the next room or space. It’s also the emotional space before transitioning. ***But what if your hallway feels never-ending?

We just watched The Haunted Mansion. I loved the ride at Disneyland as a child. I was terrified of scary movies and scary things, but the Haunted Mansion is set in a New Orleans style square and just outside the line for the mansion upbeat New Orleans jazz plays. I loved the cheerful music, and the well tended shade garden as we wound our way outside the grand mansion to get inside to the ride. The depictions of early 1800’s gracious living over ruled my juvenile fears of haunted houses.
But I digress. I’m thinking of a particular aspect of the tour punctuated in the movie. One of the main characters is running down the hall trying to get out and the hall just keeps expanding so he can't get out and then and there I am feeling it. The hallways in the mansion were ever expanding to keep the characters from getting to where they were going. They were stuck in a liminal space, if you will. 

In the Disney attraction, even before you see the endless hallway, you enter an anteroom that is really a sort of stretching elevator. The portraits hanging on the wall begin as innocuous paintings of innocent looking people and stretch into something ominous, revealing something sinister behind the innocent facade, all while a ghost voice ushers you through. When you exit this room and make your way down a never-ending hallway, the portraits here look like lovely people or pleasant scenes and transform into something garish and freaky when lightening strikes. Everything is not what it seems. And it’s all just a passage. Technically, at Disneyland, you’re still “in line” for the “ride”, but you’re actually also inside the attraction and experiencing the event. You're both in a liminal space and in the destination.

Beautiful lady

Is actually balancing on a tightrope. Hmmm...feels familiar.

 

Feels a lot like where we are now. We’re still in the liminal space of waiting for the next step, but we’re also in life. It’s here and now.

So I have to wonder if we’re really trapped in this haunted hallway of transition that should have been just a quick jaunt from one room to the next, or if we are actually on the ride already, and I’m mistaken that we’re stuck in a hallway that won’t end.

 

All I know is: this entertaining and enjoyable movie brought up a lot of feels for me.

Before cancer was one place. After transplant was the next. We thought we would transition through hospital stays to the great “back to life” of living at home and being recovered and moving forward with our careers and lives.
Only. The debilitating Gvhd. It stretched our threshold of transitioning.
And then Covid. Without a doubt, this new world of a highly transmissible airborne virus has ushered us firmly into what feels like a never ending hallway of waiting complete with spooky paintings and ghostly voices.
I feel like we both thought if we can just get past this, we’ll be free to move forward, but the threshold keeps moving. It feels like we’re endlessly running and the door is just out of reach.

If you look closely at the image below, you'll see the transformation. Sometimes, the impact of Dom's disease and Covid makes me feel like the final portrait, but being home, with our beloved things reminds me that it's just a ride and it's full of laughs.

 

So don’t get me wrong. Can you tell I love Disney? I do. One thing I’ve been really bummed about these past six years is not being able to introduce Dominic to Disneyland and to invite myself along when my special Cece went for the first time. When I got out of high school, I got a job at Disneyland. My cousin and I would go spend time in the land themed New Orleans Square, enjoying the ambiance. To be able to see myself in a Disney story should feel a little comforting. It's such a familiar place. It has brought me so many good memories. Only, I didn’t realize of all the Princess and Fantasy options, I’d relate to the Haunted Mansion. (To be honest though, I’ve also fallen down the Rabbit Hole and met Caterpillars and Mad Hatters.)

All that to say; it’s not bad to be in a liminal space. And I don’t feel horrible that life didn’t turn out as we planned. I do feel a bit under equipped. There’s “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” You get a guidance counselor in college. I grew up in a church where potential life partners received marriage counseling before tying the knot. But, no one plans on cancer. Or disability. It just happens. We had just exited a liminal space before the cancer. We had just, finally, at advanced ages established ourselves into our career goals. We had exited the hallway and were in really grand rooms with people and prospects. I finally felt like a certified grown up. I've been regressing ever since.

The funny thing is, the Facebook algorithm lords noted my search of liminal and suggested for me an article in Architecture and Design. Seriously. All my chat about hallways and art and liminal spaces led me to a design magazine. So, I clicked on the article and came across words like nostalgia and kidcore and I’m shaking my head yah, yah, I get it. I am totally feeling this. I just bought an ornament that depicts a nursery rhyme reminding me of the children’s cutlery I used as a babe. Also, I bought a dollhouse to paint. I am totally feeling nostalgia and kidcore. I’ve embraced whimsey as my primary decor aesthetic. Embracing this has brought me a lot of joy. I am digging this article that seems to affirm my regression.

And then I got to the last paragraph. Mind you, this is after I’ve decided that Dom and I are currently stuck in a liminal space, and I'm actually embracing the life we're building in our hobbit hole.
But the critical thing is—though you are nostalgically drawn to these spaces, you cannot overstay your welcome. Spend a few minutes embracing this amniotic bliss—in the end you have to leave.

And now I feel like someone yanked me off my unicorn.

I have no idea how we’re going to outrun this hallway.
Dominic and I definitely move differently. We’re processing all that we’ve been through differently because we’ve experienced it differently. But we’re both experiencing the alienation of isolation. We’re grappling with what it means. And, we’re grappling with what the room will look like when we get out of the hallway.
We went out with friends recently for the first time since Covid happened. 3 years, and it was our first, and last outing. We met outside at a cafe for coffee. As we’re telling these lovely friends that it’s been so long since we’ve been in a social situation like this, we felt like babes in the woods, something funny happened. We’d ordered pastries and the cashier brought them out to us in little paper bags. We all reached in and started taking bites. Dom pulled his pastry out and put it in his mouth. A peculiar look crossed his face and he blurted out “babe” in that special way that holds so much meaning between couples. I looked at him fearful of what he’d discovered. Was it a hair? A bug? What caused this plaintive cry? His pastry was in plastic wrap. I still can’t even tell this story without laughing as I type because it is so nothing and everything at the same time. I fell into uncontrollable laughter. This man, who is still most definitely a man, who has endured so much and also relied on me for so much could only cry out to me when his pastry was in plastic wrap and it just stunned him into crying out to me for some explanation. We both laughed into hysterics at the absurdity of it all. And our friends looked at us a little bit like they may need to back away slowly.

And that is a lot how we feel in general. Nearly everyone has backed away slowly as we’ve devolved into hobbit like creatures who just want the comfort of home and a nice warm cup of tea.
And, we’re not entirely sad about it.
The world has gone mad. Well and truly bonkers. It feels a bit more “off with their heads” mad than Mad Hatter. (By the way, a friend just wrote a book of recipes inspired by Alice in Wonderland, and I will be having Alice inspired teas and parties outside. You should come.) 

But, as you can probably tell from my many allusions to the never-ending hallway, not much has changed here.
And in some ways, in a lot of ways, that’s okay.

Post script:

 The book is called Alice in Wonderland The Official Cookbook, published by Insight Editions

Just for funsies, my brother went to Disney's Haunted Mansion to capture some video for me. I'm not able to insert the videos, but here's a few more stills and his youtube channel. Hearing him laugh through the ride made me laugh out loud. It was good.

Livinlifeanimated

 

 

Two Thirds

 It's that time of year again. 

I get more pensive. Maybe tear up a little more easily. I count blessings and I count sheep.

Dom and I were married on a May 15 and we went to the ER on a June 15, so each wedding anniversary anticipates a less celebratory anniversary. It was 9 years this past May and 6 years this past June. A full 2/3 of our married life has been spent navigating a path we didn't mean to take. I may have packed my life differently had I known this is the path we'd be on. But life, like a wildfire doesn't always give you time to pack. Sometimes you just run. I think I'm still running. And I am un-apologetically oh so tired.

When we were essentially living at the hospital, I watched a favorite show on repeat. I would fall asleep to Father Brown and sometimes a nurse would just ever so quietly close my laptop. I really appreciated the nurses who would get in my business that way. As I was anticipating this anniversary I was also anticipating a new season of this show that is now intrinsically tied to our journey. The show is loosely based on novels by GK Chesterton. He's a crime solving Father. I love crime shows because they have tidy endings. I particularly love Father B, as Dom calls him, because he shows so much compassion throughout his interactions. And of course, the setting in the Cotswolds is cozy and comforting. We started the new season last night and I am delighted. I'm even slightly nostalgic for the camaraderie of all the nurses and how well we cocooned in our room and were cared for.

I get particularly nostalgic at this time for all the goodness shown to us and think of all of you who decided to hop on the path with us as far as you could. There are stories of generosity that just resonate with me and give me hope beyond the immediate provision.

Here's the Christmas card part of the annual update. Nothing much has changed since our last update! 

Dom continues his photo-pheresis treatment every other week. It's about a 3 hour process intended to reset his immune system. His system is still in chaos. His kidneys have been attacked for nearly 3 years now and he's been on steroids all that time. That's not good for the body. And Dom and I will both tell you, high doses of steroids can be very challenging for an already stressed married couple. If we're honest. But we keep chipping away at our egos and resolve all steroid infused trials with lots of love. In addition to the 3 hour treatment, he occasionally needs another infusion of IGG since his body currently struggles to make it. Those days can stretch to 14 hours with a doctor visit in between and with driving.

When we're not being road warriors to and from the hospital, we putter. I mean, work. It's never ending on the property. It was a very wet winter. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop for me. We lost power over a dozen times over the past year, and as many of you know, that means no running water as well because well, we're on a well. And speaking of the well, the holding tank and pump also had to be replaced to really sharpen my bucket carrying skills. Half a dozen trees came down over the year. We were quite fortunate when the large oak came down across the driveway, our friend was here and between the three of us, we were able to make the drive passable for the other tenants. That's pretty much the way things are around here. We fumble along and things work out.

Old tricks, new tricks

 This morning, my social media memory carried me back to the hopefulness of five years ago. The belief that after the stem cells of a generous donor were safely deposited in Dom's body, we'd soon be able to get back to our old tricks.

On the bright side, the cells are safely in his body.

This blog has become somewhat of a bi-annual observation these days. How do I write "we're still plugging along" over and over? But we are. We may not have the exciting twists and turns of will there be a donor match? Will the transplant take? Will the people upstairs in our temporary apartment ever stop partying with shoes made of clay?

Just like a daily dose of nature is as good for the soul as a once in a lifetime trip to a natural wonder; it's the daily gratefulness and observations that keep us going. It's good for my soul to take stock and look forward while looking backward. It occurs to me as I write this that I wouldn't make a good Buddhist. "Here now" is the culmination of all we've been through and what we hope for. I'm not interested in emptying my mind. I am interested in meeting the day with the knowledge that our hopes are very simple. To live while living.

So, how are we living? Much the same as the last few years.

We set our alarms to make the trek to Sacramento every other week. It's really quite a thing that now that we're "old" people, we wake early naturally in the morning, (sometimes really early since Dom is on steroids.) But Sacramento mornings, my alarm goes off and all of a sudden, I can fall into that elusive deep sleep I've been longing for. But I can't because we've got to go.

He's been on steroids for far too long. Most stem cell transplant patients are completely weaned off  immune suppressing drugs by now. Our Dom is special. You know how your immune system kicks into gear when you have a cold and it wipes out all the intruding bacteria/virus and you're back to normal before you know it? Well. Dom's immune system continues to see his vital organs as intruders and sets about wiping them out cell by cell and won't stop until his organs are wiped out like a cold or flu. He continues the UV therapy. The nurses continue to marvel at what beautiful veins he has. The doctor has concerns. Here we are.

Our journey has taken us from a bustling hospital unit with dozens of nurses we got to know; I was actually in some ways excited for his 5 day hospital stays so I would actually get to visit with people. From there we spent years visiting the Infusion Center where again, we would see dozens of familiar nurses and while many people were seriously ill and there was an air of somberness, there was also an air of celebration and camaraderie for each small step. The Infusion "Center" was actually 3 different locations. Two of them were bustling. As time wore on, and Dom's treatment transitioned, we were sent to the smallest center, and the specialized machines used for Dom were in the back corner away from the hustle and bustle. At times, the quiet is nice. But it's not the same as when we'd walk into the bustling center and it was like an episode of Cheers, only they'd be calling out "Dom" instead of Norm. I even miss the beeps and alarms that kept us awake all night in the hospital and followed us through each center.

And now, the hospital and doctors have been rearranging and consolidating and we are in a closet on the ground floor tucked in behind registration and see only our nurse and maybe one other. 

And it feels very much like our journey.

In the beginning, people were riveted by our story. We were surrounded by caregivers and concerned friends. As time has worn on, things continue to shift, and downgrade, and sometimes, it feels like our life has been distilled down to the people I can count on one hand attending to us in our closet.

Life imitates art, and apparently can also imitate medical organizations.

Five and a half years into the diagnosis and two and a half into a pandemic, I finally got a sourdough start. My first loaf was almost perfect. The following two were heavy. I'll leave that there.

Dom's full time job continues to be living. Being on steroids is no fun. Our marriage is a good one and we've made it through a lot of things others would crumple in. But steroids? Hoo boy. I'm going to want a gold star when he's finally weaned off of those. We've had a few moments where we just stop, blurt out "it's the steroids" and move on. He has good days and bad days. He has days where he can putter around outside and days he is one with the couch.

There is no prognosis at this juncture. The body will do what it will do and the doctor studies his numbers closely. There's talk of seeing a kidney specialist next because they are taking quite a beating. Dom is eager to be productive, and he does what he can. 

We're trying to imagine what life looks like given our situation. We both have to reinvent ourselves, but in between the reinvention is the reality. I need a better job to support us both, but the pandemic threw a secondary wrench into that. 

And in spite of all that, we are laughing and loving and being. 

Throughout his illness, we've been stunned by the precariousness of life as well as how capricious death seems. It felt so weird that Dom's life was hanging by a thread and we'd hear news of a police officer shot in the line of duty or a firefighter down in a fire and we'd talk about the lack of rhyme or reason. We experienced that in an even more intimate way this year, as his brother's precious wife was taken suddenly and unexpectedly. She was just two months older than me, very active and just like that, we lost her. I cannot make sense of all the times she supported us throughout Dom's illness only to be the one who is snatched away from us. She was a beautiful human being and dearly missed.

We continue to take so much joy in our animals. Out of seven baby chicks, we did not get one rooster! For months, I studied their markings and behavior and was convinced with my luck, we'd have seven roosters. If you haven't just stopped and watched a chicken run recently, I highly recommend doing this. Just like so many things on my mind today, it defies reason.

 

The bobcats still approach the cage as if it's a vending machine. With the help of friends, we've enclosed the whole structure. But we continue to be vigilant for hungry predators. Yesterday morning, a fox came by. 

We're in love with our stray cat. Houdini, unlike his predecessors, is not a lap cat, so when he does come around with purring and nudging, we're thrilled. I always did love the hard to get creatures. He melts our hearts every day. We're especially grateful for him as we lost one of the other boys. Our Errol Flynn is gone now. The cat I was so desperate to get home to all that time in Sacramento, the wily cat who made my neighbor cry when he escaped the carrier during the fire that nearly burned our house and she was trying to rescue him, the one who made peace with Houdini and ate side by side with the new kid in town. I do not deal with loss well at all. It is an inevitability. These years have been a Master Class in acceptance and growth. 

It was Dom's first try at gardening this year. I think he's hooked. It's a battle against the critters, but we try. The bare root apple trees produced four apples this year, and we call that a win. He developed an appreciation for Kale and the chickens feasted on tomatoes.

 

I've been sitting on this all day. It just reads like a Christmas card, but really, I have so many things I want to share. But not like an apple pie I can cut into pieces and just give you a piece, more like an apple cart someone can push while I pull. 

I have a lot of thoughts around the words blessed and grateful. Dominic and I have never asked "why me?" through this whole ordeal. But why not me? Is that an equally unfruitful question? 

We are so grateful. But life is also nuanced and blatant and complicated and simple. I'm not sure where I can write all the other things that are just as real and true as we are grateful. I think this sums up what I'm trying to communicate perfectly.

 

Another year, another animal

It's been five years now. I'm so glad I have this on line journal to look back on. Even if I only write once or twice a year, it's perspective. Looking back on last year's sharing, it was very heavy. 

Thanks to this little guy, this year feels a lot lighter.

We'll be celebrating the one year anniversary of his unexpected arrival in a couple weeks. He showed up one night hungry and scruffy. I looked for his owners. I looked for a new home for him. Lots of people said he was meant to be mine, but financially, even just a cat is a frivolity. But, potential owners didn't work out, (I made a new friend though!), and I just could not bring myself to give him up to a place where he'd be in a cage or a small room until adopted. He'd been living on his own outside and that just seemed cruel.

So, Houdini the little escape artist became a part of our family. I'd shared about him on social media. The first night we noticed him, he was so hungry, and I'd later discover injured. It was dusk and he scampered by me as I was walking up the trail and sat down a few feet away. He just sat there lifting his head to smell the breeze. He seemed completely unbothered by his hunger or his wound. He just enjoyed the night air. He made his way down to the barn and stayed the night there. He lived in the barn for a while and it took a bit of maneuvering to make the barn secure. He was so independent, he would push his way through the doors we'd barricaded to keep him safe at night and dig his way out. He wanted out. And he wanted in. I can really relate to that. We want what we want. 

My working class Brit teased about him getting his boots planted firmly under the table. This is true. He charmed his way right into our hearts. Over time, his wound healed and his coat became soft and glossy. And he makes us laugh and smile all the time. He's bright, friendly, and curious; he wants to know everyone. I guess, in some ways, he reminds me of Dom. Life has been pretty precarious for Dom, but he'll still walk outside, lift his head into the breeze, and just take it all in. He too is healing from his wounds, and he's been taken in by all of you. You've fed him and cared for him. You've made it possible to get treatment he needs and continue to cheer him on as he faces the lifelong disease of gvhd. 

Sometimes, we're hanging on by a thread.

But we are hanging on.

Last year, I was so exhausted. I had actually found myself crying uncontrollably the entire month of June. I felt alone and in some pretty deep despair.

July was a game changer. I shared here that Dominic was able to be fitted for contacts that protect his eyes. He was going blind and in constant pain. We had to get them, and if you remember, a group of artists had decided to give him the remainder of some funds they had which amounted to almost the exact amount necessary for the contacts. We still live on that divine grace.

The pandemic shifted things for us and for me. It made it easier to let go of some things. It is the strangest thing to be on the cusp of normalcy only to have the whole world shut down and then try to find a new normal and actually there is no such thing. I realized, what we all crave is not normalcy, but comfort and adventure. 

Our adventures remain our trips to Sacramento. We go every 2-3 weeks for Dom's treatment. He's kind of at a stand still where we still hope for forward progress. He's still on large doses of anti rejection medication, which should have been over by now. He continues to suffer a laundry list of ailments that we treat like whack a mole. Oh that some wet cat food and a safe home could cure him. We balance hope for progress with cheerful resignation. He is alive. He is able to help where he can. We have Houdini. All is well.

Thanks to the contacts, Dom is also able to drive a little. It was not a possibility last year at this time. We make a stop on the way home from Sacramento to pick up paperwork for my job and he drives the final leg home. It's been so good for him to be behind the wheel and taking back more of his autonomy. He's also been on the tractor as we have acres of fields to mow. This year, he's been able to help me more. This is good for both of us! We spend lots of time outside. This is one of the gifts of Covid, I think. Since we knew we'd be spending a lot of time at home, we've done what we can to make it a happy place. We don't own our home or the property, so everything we do is mindful of that detail. We're also mindful of fire danger. But, in between all that, we've planted a garden again this year and to plant a garden is to hope! We did a re-haul of the chicken coop, hopefully protecting them from bobcats and foxes, and started a new flock. (Thanks to my anonymous helper and Charlie G and Bob for their help on the coop.) And just to add to the poultry farm, we have a resident Tom. We call him Turkey Lurkey, and since I started feeding him leftover grains, he's not going anywhere. He has a damaged leg and limps around grazing on the last bit of field we've left untouched for him. We eagerly look for him in the mornings.

These things all give us life. Just being and helping in small ways where we can and breathing in the air.

No one can ever convey the intricacies of their life to another. My own mother who I speak with every day is continuing to learn and understand how we are situated, so I realize our own odyssey can be difficult to wrap one's mind around. Life as we knew it has changed irrevocably. Our goals and dreams have changed. But the one thing that remains is love. I shared a book page of the The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy yesterday, I'll leave you with it:

"We don't know about tomorrow," said the horse, "all we need to know is that we love each other."

 

 

 

 
 

 One of my guilty pleasures is a Hallmark Channel tv show where things always seem to turn out just right. When the town needed a new something and the money wasn't in the budget, magically, a young intern decided to go through some old dusty accounting ledgers in the attic and an old bank account was discovered containing just the amount of money needed. It's like magic. I loved the idea of money turning up just when it was needed.

Last month, I was being really raw and honest. It was important to me that people understand our journey is not over.

But along the journey, there's always room for sweetness and light.

Some people say we must make room for good things. I don't think that's true. There's always room for goodness. You just need eyes to see.

The next step for Dominic's eyes was special contact lenses. The theory is they protect his own lenses from damage that his own system can no longer accomplish due to his new immune system attacking them. This prognosis was not made lightly. He climbed the ranks of specialists and tried numerous treatments before landing here. Insurance denied coverage for this. We decided to pay out of pocket because this is so important to Dom's quality of life. It is more than an artist keeping his vision, which alone is tremendous, it is also a pain management solution.  He went in for a fitting and just having contacts in for a short while brought immediate relief. He was really looking forward to acquiring his new lenses and being able to see, and more importantly, see with less discomfort.

In the interim of the fitting and his contacts being made, a dear friend of ours asked if she could bring something to us. We thought she'd be bringing a homemade meal or pastries. We sat outside and she told us this story. 

She's a part of a group of talented women artists, the 428 Collective. They've been together for years and support one another and their work. Somewhere along the line, they'd opened a bank account for their endeavors. Over time, especially Covid time, the account was forgotten, the world shut down and art shows were on hold for a while. The bank called one of the account holders and instructed that if the account remained inactive, the money would be turned over to the state. So they talked amongst themselves about this forgotten cache and decided to have a dinner with the proceeds. What a gorgeous dinner it looks like. After the year we have all had, how delightful it must have been to gather and connect. This alone makes me happy. Where lovely, strong women gather, beautiful things happen.

The expenditure for the dinner did not exhaust all the money in the account. As they sat around under the twinkling lights they discussed how to spend the rest of this unearthed treasure. Some of the ladies know Dominic, and he had come up in conversation for updates on his health. It was decided then, that the remainder of the money should go to Dominic. It was almost exactly enough to cover the lenses, with a little more leftover to buy the solutions to go with the lenses.

I will leave each of you to name this goodness what you will. For me, I am ever so grateful we are seen and cared for, and our needs are covered from the most unexpected places. 

Thank you 428 Collective for your generosity. Thank Goodness for generosity and kindness and love and compassion.

Post Script: The contacts are in and they are providing relief and protection. Dom is beyond happy.

 It's been 4 years!

I opened the blog, and it's been so long since I've been able to write, the interface is different! I opened the blog to my last unpublished post exclaiming now I can write. Apparently, I could not.

I've thought of y'all these quiet months of recovery and a worldwide pandemic. I've wondered how you're doing with the changes and the ebbs and flows.

It's difficult to believe that just 4 years ago, we were advancing in careers we'd both trained tirelessly for, the fires hadn't hit our hometown with a vengeance and become all consuming, and we were wondering if we'd one day have children, even if through fostering.

I had to stop writing because our story just didn't seem fancy anymore, this thing we're experiencing. I felt like a broken record. The grief was beginning to well up in me and any flowery or funny thing I could say was being usurped by this is hard. This is unspeakably hard. But dangit, if Dom and I are not the Energizer Bunny, I don't know anything anymore.

We have now been a couple in sickness longer than in health as we celebrated our seven year anniversary. And I want to tell you the raw bits, but I'm afraid you'll run away, because it's no longer entertaining. The numbers have all merged together and we've stopped the trail of one to pick up another and I've lost many of you on the trail; many of you are still on White Count and we're on alkaloids and proteins. 

So do I share the nice first, or the raw bits? I could tell you that right after I typed this sentence a coyote started barking in the field. I thought it was the neighbor's dogs until I really looked out the window. The dogs wander alone, and we've inherited chickens, so I needed to make this canine most unwelcome. Is my grief a canine? Seems so funny I'm typing away about rawness and am visited by a barking coyote.

When we got the news that Dom had Leukemia, I charted a course. He'd have one month in the hospital and then we'd be on the road to recovery. Then the news came that he had the kind of cancer that would need many rounds of chemo. So I charted that course. I knew lots of people who did their rounds of chemo and then there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Then I found out that between rounds of chemo, there would be infusions and many 4 hours round trips between rounds of chemo. So I lost it a little bit, I mean charted a course. Then I found out he'd need a bone marrow transplant. And we'd have to move to Sacramento for a few months. So I charted a course. Everything was new and shiny and we were held up and supported by so many people. I was surrounded by medical staff. People brought me coffee and sandwiches. My rig was equipped.

Somewhere between the bone marrow transplant and today, I'm not sure where, I lost my mojo. I'm not sure if it was him wasting away in the hospital having one of the worst and deadliest cases of gvhd or the insurance snafu that required a minimum of thirty frustrating hours on the phone between Christmas and my birthday in March of 2020. Maybe it was the long recovery that is not going as planned. Or perhaps it was the pandemic right on the heels of pneumonia. Needless to say, I feel like the Christmas paper crumpled and shoved in a trash bag. My usefulness served, and now I'm creased and tape has ripped away the ink. The paper is in the bag for a reason, and sometimes I feel that's where my words belong too.

I was feeling incredibly lonely. People I reached out to and was so looking forward to seeing flaked on me with an apology which rang so hollow after all I'd been through. Dom was losing his mojo too. I think it's a miracle he got to attend his sister's wedding. He had just under a year to build strength to walk and put some weight back on his emaciated frame. While in some ways it was a triumph to get him back home to be with his family, in other ways it bled me dry. I was so afraid he'd get sick while overseas. Your pandemic fears were/are my every day fears.

Upon our return, it was clear he'd turned another bad corner. So here's the nitty gritty. He has one of the worst cases of gvhd. (Graft vs host disease.) The new immune system continues to see Dom's own body as enemy cells that need to be eradicated. He struggles to breath as his lungs are attacked. He struggles to keep his eyes open and moist. He can't feel it, but his kidneys are being attacked. You guys. We had one week. One week between his liver being the thing we were keeping an eye on to his kidneys being the thing. He's been on the immune suppressant that most BMT patients are weaned off of in the first year in addition to massive steroids. This is not sustainable. I am not sure how to chart this course. We go every week, the four hour round trip to receive a treatment that takes 3 hours. Sometimes more. We go to a local eye doctor twice a month where he has had plugs placed in his tear ducts and more. The treatment for his eyes may yet be out of reach. Sometimes he also needs an infusion to boost his immune system which takes another 3 hours. He is a human pin cushion. He gets a needle in both arms, sometimes his hand. One needle is so large, he must keep that arm still. Blood is taken out, the white cells are spun out, zapped with UV light, and sent back into his body. No one can explain how this works, but somehow, it does? Some mornings, as my alarm goes off at 5, I question its efficacy.

But we jump through the hoops.

Two of the group of five who had transplants the same week have lost their fight against the cancer. We've lost track of the others. The doctor has confidence that with his immune system being such a fighter, the cancer will not come back. The silver lining in this is Dominic is still here.

Dom is in much better spirits than I am. He's so grateful to be alive. We're both so grateful for the support we received. We'd never have made it without so much generosity. Some of you really were the difference between eating or not. That's to say, we haven't gone hungry and we have a roof over our heads. Life is good. And more than Dom, I sometimes struggle to see that. I realized sometime after his lungs started failing that we would never go back to normal. While people have been clamoring to open up during this pandemic and fighting because they were asked to wear a mask, I've been processing how to move forward as both caretaker and bread winner. (I am not a bread winner. I could not even make a single sourdough this whole pandemic. This is not me.)

Dom is having to find himself again. He wants to work, but it's not in the cards right now. Especially with the pandemic. The vaccines did not pose a risk for Dom, but in all likelihood, his medication prevented the efficacy of the vaccine. So, we continue to live with great caution. We're so fortunate to live where we do. It's beautiful. It's secluded. And, it's allowed Dom to putter in a way that allows him to rest when he needs to. He built some fairy houses, and if anyone local needs a fairy house, let him know. We've convinced our Cece that fairies came in the night and built houses here and there. We sent the fairies to her house as well. Only the fairies can open the doors and windows we tell her. We believe in Santa round these parts. Life is too harsh to not weave stories of whimsy from time to time.

 

He rebuilt a rock wall at the entrance to the property. It's all just slow and steady. Friends loaned him an electric bike which allows him to test his strength and get around when his lungs can't get him the breath he needs to get up the hills here. There's much to do here always. Trees to cut back, weeds to mow, walls to paint. He said it's like the Golden Gate Bridge. Once you get to the end, you have to go back to the beginning. It's never done. I sometimes get overwhelmed but he keeps plugging along. 

So that's where we are! While others perfected the art of baking sourdough, or scrambled for childcare in this last year, we've just hammered on. We've been stunned as people who have offered encouragement have themselves succumbed to the frailty of life. I hesitate to share too much. (Was this too much?), but am happy to share more details of my own spiritual journey privately. I dreamed of one day having a party with all those who have been so supportive of us in this journey. Now, I just dream that you all know how very special you are to us, and how grateful we are to know you and that you are well and content.

 

New hospital? I feel a blog post coming on.

New adventures in hospitals definitely call for blog posts. I can't help but compare and contrast and want to put into words all that has transpired.

As most of you know, we went to the ER on Wednesday morning with a fever. We started at urgent care, which felt a little safer, but oxygen levels indicated our needs were more emergent. One of the reasons we were reluctant to go to the ER was immediately visible to me when I went inside.
I left Dom in the car to shield him from more germs. And I could practically see them flying around that room. Poor miserable souls. The room was packed with various illnesses. I held my breath.
I arranged to receive a phone call when they were ready to see Dom, and I speed raced him in a wheel chair when we were called. (Of course I received half a dozen spam calls all of which I answered not knowing the number that would be calling me.)
They saw him in triage where they took his vitals and some blood and other tests. Then we were sent back to our car to wait for a room in the ER.
The hours ticked by. I didn't plan for this at all. Basically, we got out of bed and rolled out without much thought to food. I couldn't go get food because we didn't want to lose our place in line so to speak. Dominic's lack of appetite increased with his illness, so we're dealing with more weight loss and getting calories in him is imperative. (Kicking myself now for not packing him food.)
But I'm getting better and better at asking for what I need. I needed food for Dom. So I reached out to his good friend and asked if he could deliver food. To the parking lot. Isn't that where all sick people with no appetite want to eat? In no time at all Bob arrived with a delicious hot soup and some crackers and thankfully, there's grandkids around because Dom put in a request for a kid drink.
All in all, we sat in the car for around five hours. We'd left before 10 in the morning, and it wasn't until 4 pm that we landed in a room in the ER. We did have blankets for him in the car, but the fever was keeping him warm.
I was so grateful they put Dom on priority for a room. They wheeled him past a very disgruntled nurse and woman who thought they were getting the room. I felt badly, but not really. Dom's needs are special. The last thing he needed was to pick up additional different germs. It was a bit of chaos from there. My mind was a bit of chaos. When we left in the morning, I wasn't thinking pneumonia. (Though I think I knew). I wasn't thinking hospitalization. I was thinking Urgent Care, prescription, bed. Easy peasy.
Nope.
Nope.
Nope.
Now, getting information from doctors in these emergent situations is always interesting. Interesting in the same way someone shows you their new furniture and you say it's interesting, or they've prepared a "special" meal for you and you say it's interesting.
I don't know what to make of the information being thrown at us. It's interesting.
Is it viral pneumonia or bacterial pneumonia? It makes a difference, but it's too soon to say. Is there also a flu bug? Can it be treated at home? All these questions swirling about.
The room is small. There's no toilet, as it's not a hospital room.
The ER is slammed. It's one of the busiest days they've had. People in beds lining the halls.In moments of boredom and waiting, Dom and I would catch snippets of things outside. A young man sat across from our doorway being looked at for muscle strain. He'd hurt himself lifting. We heard a nurse give him an ice pack to take home and suggest to him to take some otc pain killers and to take it easy for a bit. He asked her if he could go back in and lift tomorrow. I know it's mean, but we laughed. The humanity. The folly of youth. The soberness of experience. My head full of cotton as I'd not worried about my own food needs. I'd found chocolate almonds in my bag and devoured them. But, at some point, I realized this wasn't the infusion center in Sacramento. No one was coming by with a sandwich cart. We weren't being escorted into the hospital where the nurses waited on us hand and foot making sure we had our needs met.
It was evening, and I asked the next person to come into the room if there was any way Dom could get food. He looked at the clock and told me if we wanted food, we should have asked before 6:30. And that was it. No offer of any assistance. I was later taken into a room by the charge nurse who allowed me to go in and make myself a coffee and the fridge was full of jellos, puddings and sandwiches. I kind of want to throttle the guy who flippantly told me too late, no soup for you. Thankfully, I'd found the cafeteria once Dom was settled and bought him a selection of things, but I'd hoped he'd get a hot meal.
As the evening wore on, and there were still no beds available anywhere and it looked like Dom would be spending another night in the ER, as he had two and a half years ago when he was diagnosed with Leukemia. I really wanted him home away from all the germs. I couldn't see the point of him staying the night. I was terrified by the thought of him being taken by ambulance in the middle of the night to some far off hospital. The memories of driving to Sacramento completely bleary with grief and lack of sleep are still very close. But, after weighing all the options, going home would mean starting all over at the bottom of the line in the ER. So, with much discussion, we decided to stay. In the process of discussion, I did complain to his finally present nurse that part of the reason I wanted him home is because he was being so neglected. I shared with her how I'd asked about food and been brushed off. She was so sorry and became immediately more attentive and returned with puddings and jellos and drinks. So, I finally settled into leaving him at the ER.
With heavy heart, I drove home, remembering the drive a life time ago, leaving my muscular but scared man on a warm summer day in a bright green t shirt looking so handsome but frightened on a paper covered bed to be taken by ambulance the next morning to Sacramento.
This time I left a much more frail version, already in a hospital gown who was now a professional at this business and happy for me to go get rest.
The next morning, there was talk of sending him home to be followed up with by his physician. He would be on oral antibiotics. The two doctors that came in to see us were happy to send us home, and impressed with our dedication to getting him better.
And then.
More test results showed we weren't going home. Different strains of bacteria. Different concerns. Red flags all over his chart. "Don't send him home!" I was, of course, happy I did not take him against medical advice the night before. I was glad that at the very least, he did have a bed in the ER where they would treat him until an actual hospital bed opened up.
And as I've mentioned elsewhere, he did charm the socks off them. It was another busy day in the ER, nurses from the day before came in and told us how they went home, showered and fell asleep in their dinner, too tired to put their sweet babies in bed. And Dom smiled and twinkled his eyes at them and they melted.
Logistics were making my head swim at this point. Would he be moved? When? How far away? I watched the clock and tried to also make a plan to be home around dark to put Wallace the goat away. A friend met me with homemade soup in hand to enjoy later that night when I'd crash through the door. She took me home to regroup. A distracting and welcome visit over tea, and it was back in the saddle. A call came from Dom that he'd be heading to Novato by ambulance. Another call for a rx he needed. I was assured he wouldn't be leaving for over an hour, but just as our friend was dropping me off, the ambulance was wrapping him up. I'd balked at him being so sick he'd need an ambulance the night before. But moment by moment my resistance to all things bureaucratic and emergent was melting. My hopes that this would not need hospitalization had melted away and I buckled up for another ride.

I followed behind, way behind since I didn't qualify for the carpool lane.

Unlike Sacramento, where the main entrance to the hospital faces an inhospitable one way valet parking street. and is situated by an overpass and in the middle of a myriad of one way streets, this hospital is down a street that parallels a strip mall and theater and ends in a cul de sac where the hospital lies. The entrance just says "hospital".
The gals at the front desk were deep in conversation and when asked where the room is, I was told to take the elevator or the stairs up to the second floor. That's it. Nothing else. No then turn right, look for this, go to that. Just. Here's the stairs.
The staircase is rather grand, after all our time in Sacramento where the stairs were in echoey corridors where barely two people could walk side by side. This staircase is out in the open and wide. I still didn't feel as if I am in a hospital. No security. No one cared I was there.
There aren't really signs here. I arrived at the top of the stairs with no idea. My first instinct was wrong. I found the doctor's sleeping room.
After trying every turn, I found a very large lobby with living room furniture, a barren Christmas tree and a front desk with yet another person who didn't care that I was here. (Sacramento scans your ID and wants to know who you're visiting.) The lobby is carpeted and that alone feels cozier than the sterile Bone Marrow Transplant Unit where we lived for so many months.
I found his room and it's a two person room with an empty bed! No beds, no beds they told us as we waited in the ER. And here we are. Perhaps he needs a room to himself and it is by design that the other bed is empty.

The evening rounds doctor was in the room chatting with Dom when I arrived. He was so chatty! I was surprised. We're accustomed to Dr Carroll breezing in and out. This doctor wanted to know everything. He explained a little bit more in depth what was happening with Dom's tests, and gave us a crash course in microbiology.
In profile, he looked so much like a family member, I found myself creepily staring at him and wanting to snap a photo without his knowledge.
When he left, it was just so quiet. I almost thought we were the only people here. The BMT unit was a cacophony of nurse call chimes, beeps and chirps. Someone's infusion was always calling for attention and nurses would poke their heads in to see if it was Dom's machine. Here, it almost feels like a home for the elderly where everyone is tucked up by 8. And after many months of living in Sacramento, they became our community and there was always a friendly face. Here, we feel like foreigners in a strange land.
Later, a nurse with a big beautiful smile came in but was all business. No chat. I asked how late I could stay because I'm a rules girl, you know. She uncomfortably laughed and said she didn't care. As long as there wasn't another patient, I could sleep in the chair. Okay.
But I was going home. Dom seemed stable. He wasn't in an ICU, he was in the lowest level of care, which means he is stable. After months of waking to his coughing (from the gvhd) I wasn't ashamed to want a good night's sleep.

I did sleep like a champ, once I did drift off.

The next morning, I was anxious to get back to the hospital and get all the updates on Dom's condition. He woke up ready to eat breakfast, and that is a very big deal. As I shared elsewhere, the day in the hospital flew by.

And now, the second day has flown by, with two more to go.
We think.
We hope.

Even though I look out the window and see beautiful green hills instead of city buildings and highway, it's not our familiar place.
And our hope is to keep it that way.