a spectacular recurrence of infection

I finally connected with one of the heart docs today for an autopsy report. To begin with, I wanted this report. I wanted more dots connected so I would have some feeling of completeness, or something.

I wanted it.

And I am left with a downward spiral, a new low. And the thought that if I was ever going to be rescued, this would be the perfect day for it. At one time, rescue may have meant the prince on the white stallion. Unfortunately that holds no appeal right now. I want to be wrapped in softness, hugged and told that I had nothing at all to worry about. I want to be made happy. Made happy. I want to feel safe and cared for, I want to know that the future will now be wonderful.

A awful lot to expect of any prince, even a charming one.

So the doc explained how there were no surprises in the autopsy -- no glaring or misplaced tools left inside of David, no obvious broken organ or spurting vein. I was just the infection, reasserting its power. "Spectacular" because it came on so quickly, and because it came on so quickly (which is uncommon but not unusual) David's body had to fight it hard. But his body was still so weak, and it was indeed so very weak, from the fight just 8 days before (the Saturday the ambulance brought him to the hospital), there was no strength, no reserves. His body just lost to the infection. There were clues -- that low grade fever he had the night before, the blood pressure and sugar level that could not be controlled that morning -- but even by that time, even if they had understood what was going on exactly -- and they did understand some of it -- there was probably little they could do. The doc spoke as if I understood that David's first brush with infection the Saturday night before was life threatening. I knew it was serious. But I did not think of it as life threatening. "We could have lost him that night." I did not know that. Had I realized that, I would have called Cheshire home immediately. And when I called her home, there was no reason to believe that he was in that sort of danger.

It all matters, none of it matters.

Someone recently said to me that it was two years after her husband's death that she felt like herself again. Two years. I have 6 weeks under this belt, and if there was an escape hatch, if there was a magic pill, if I could do some really good drugs, I would be tempted.

The only thing that helps now is to talk and to write here. Talking to those lovely friends who call as ask how today has gone and who listen to my endless woes, my awful feelings and do not back away. The shiva of the phone. And writing here, of course. Writing here.

No other answers. None at all.

But if you know of a prince thinking about a noble quest . . . .