Blood on the Tracks

(Thanks to Brian Moffatt for turning me on to PRX…)
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Monday afternoon they said if I wanted to see him alive I’d better get over to the hospital because he wasn’t expected to last through the night.  I knew he had family to stand a death watch.  I thought at best I’d be in the way.

On Tuesday I left early for lunch and went to the hospital.  His wife was glad to see me.  His mom.  His dad.  His brother.  Some in-laws.  His mom told me that on Thanksgiving when the family gets together they have about 85 people gathered.  A lot of them were in the waiting room Tuesday when the surgeon came in and laid out the situation.

He was in critical condition in the cardiac intensive care unit, dying.  He’d need surgery, an LVAD, then probably a transplant.  Both surgeries are high risk.  We went in to see him, and there wasn’t much to see.  He was unconscious.  She spoke in his ear.  I waited a bit then excused myself and went back to work.  He had the pump implanted that afternoon.

On Wednesday I stopped in at noon and we scrubbed up and went in to see him.   His eyes were open half-mast.  He asked me if I’d enjoyed the cigars.  He doesn’t smoke.  Neither do I.  Still he was talking.  He held my index finger like a baby does.

Thursday after work he was coherent and focusing on his animals.  He has sheep and poultry, including a rowdy and messy bunch of turkeys.  As he talked he would start to gasp, the need for air exceeding his ability to express himself.  We talked a little about good reading, about Asimov and Heinlein.

Tonight when I got there he seemed as recovered as a guy with a heavy battery powered pump implant could be.  He complained a little about the low volume of fluids they’re allowing him.  His beard was gone.

The beard is an annual event.  He plays a role in the William Tell Festival in New Glarus every September and he has to grow the beard for that.  This year the show goes on without him.  Still, less than seventy-two hours after surgery he’s sitting up, walking a little, conversing, grumbling, well on his way to recovery.  They think it’s possible the heart will heal and he won’t need the transplant.

I left him a copy of Scalzi’s recent "Old Man’s War."  I think he’ll like it.  Heinlein could have written it.