There’s a hole in the drywall still not fixed
I just haven’t gotten around
to fixing it. And besides,
I’m starting to get used to the gaps.
— the prophet julien rose baker
—

Yin: One unit of “packed red cell” blood later, I still feel lousy. But maybe that’s to be expected after a week like this one. I was watching Maddow as the three-hour transfusion session came to an end with 20 minutes still left in the show. “I can just pull the curtain and you can watch the rest before you go,” the nurse said. I thanked her but said I’ve seen enough. And I have.

I had visions of magically feel better after the transfusion, but I hadn’t factored in that today was second day of back-to-back doses of the nastier chemo, so I’m content to  feel like a Mini Winnie hit me, rather than the Willie Nelson tour bus. Although if I had been hit by the Willie Nelson tour bus, they likely would’ve offered me marijuana and handguns. But then I’d end up in an overnight stay in the Sierra Blanca red blood cell, which would create an entirely different yin/yang.

It was super creepy to watch the blood going through the IV line into my arm. I’m not big on the sight of blood. “Just think of it as Kool-Aid,” the nurse offered. But it was just as creepy to watch Kool-Aid going through the IV line into my arm. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about the weird Kool-Aid pitcher dancing around and singing in the commercial. I likely will never drink blood Kool-Aid again. If I have Kool-Aid pitcher dreams tonight I’m totally suing Mayo.

But she ended up trying to put a piece of paper over so I’d stop staring at it, so I suppose all is forgiven. I’m starting to get used to the gaps.

And thanks, person who gave me this blood. I’ll try and make it count. But I won’t make it subtract 7 from 100.

Yang: They’re throwing Char out of rehab tomorrow. I talked to her today and she said the constant cognitive tests were annoying her. She could never do math before the incident she says, so it’s a bit late to start now. And I think this makes a lot of sense. I remember in high school how the teacher said we would use algebra the rest of our lives. I’m still waiting. So why does a 91-year-old need to know how to subtract 7 from 100? Is this going to come up in real life? Just buy her an Alexa and be done with it.

The rehab center liaison says they have her labeled as a “spitfire,” which I assume is technical medical talk for “pain in the ass.”

We were talking on the phone today while we stood outside the room looking through the window. She kept asking me where our car was. I pointed it out, just across a little gravel patch between the building and the parking lot. At that point, a physical therapist opened her door to the outside door to say hello to us, giving Char a clear escape route. I had visions of Kate, Mo’s cat who would feign total disinterest in escape before suddenly flying out the door and down to the gated pool area, where she would sit for hours smirking at me, as I had no pool key. I suspect this is why Char is coming home tomorrow.

She’s going straight from rehab to living alone again, bypassing the assisted living Act 2 of the play. She couldn’t be happier, and we couldn’t be more terrified. I should probably hide her box of marijuana and handguns before she returns. 

Funny how life always seems to balance out …