It was a week ago Thursday night, late. I'd just popped a tiny Tylenol P.M. and was heading off to bed, when my husband comes into the room and asks me if his aortal aneurism ::I cannot spell that word.:: was ascending or descending?

What are you talking about?

My anyerism. You know. Is it descending or ascending?

How'd you get an anuerysm?

Didn't you hear the doctor? ::He's referring to the rent-a-cardiologist at the hospital, a month ago.:: He said my aorta is enlarged.

I never heard the word anyerism.

Well, that's what an enlarged aorta is.

What are you talking about? We don't know if your aorta is enlarged. You haven't even seen the real cardiologist yet. Your own doctor told you that you're a big boy, with a big heart and sometimes a big heart brings a big aorta. And if that's what you really have, wouldn't the rental cardiologist unit have told you? They didn't even have your baseline measurement at the time. And I just took a Tylenol P.M. ferfucklesakes.

I know my baseline, now. It was 4 cm. It's up to 4.6. That's huge. That's an aynyerism. Just forget I said anything. I thought I could talk to you...my wife. I thought you might be interested to know that when they perform the surgery to fix it, I'll be buried in ice and put on artificial life support, so as to minimize the brain damage, which is almost certain with this particular kind of surgery.

Brain damage? Where the hell is this coming from? And way to ruin a good Tylenol P.M. fuzz, by the way.

I got it from the internet. I've been reading up on this shit every day. I have...as he reads from the back of a tattered grocery list...a Thoracic Aortic Aneryism. And that's really bad.

I'll spare you the details of rest of the dialogue, but I will share that it included screaming and swearing and crying and then laughing. You see, a couple months ago, Cakers was diagnosed, by a real doctor, with bronchitis. The day after the appointment, our very own Doctor Cabana calls me at work to tell me that Cakers has Asthma.

Did the doctor call? I asked, with alarm.

No. I got it from the internet. She has asthma. I just know it. ::I have no idea. Maybe there is a diagnostic website where you breathe into the mouse and right click at the same time?::

Oddly enough, at her follow-up appointment, the doctor gave Cakers'lungs and overall respiratory functioning, a clean bill. And we didn't speak of it again. Until last Thursday.

And even though we agreed to hold off on looking for a nursing home until after getting a second opinion from the Real Cardiologist, the following Monday, I couldn't stop rethinking the possibility of me and The Cakers living a life without this man. This internet diagnostic idiot, who just happens to be my everything. My happiness. A man I would gladly share a life with in a van, down by the river. Okay, make that a used R.V.

I need him. He changes light bulbs and fills my gas tank and fetches me wine. He loves to grocery shop with me. He has a healthy respect for ADHD. He can do a buttload of dishes in about 10 minutes, the same amount of time it takes me to circle the kitchen six times, move 3 plates from one counter to the other, before deciding to do it later. And every night he tells me to quit plucking my eyebrows and come to bed. ::I don't even know how he knows that's what I'm doing, because I'm very quiet with the tweezers. It's like he's psychic. Practically.::

Needless to say, I spent last weekend fighting the intrusive images of limping through the rest of my life, fielding the misguided hatred of the half-orphaned Cakers, while growing fat and wrinkly and bald of brow. All alone.

Long story almost over: Per the Real Cardiologist, The fucking rental from the hospital misquoted the echocardiogram findings to us. His Aorta was not 4.6 cm, but only 4.2. Which, with margin of error, is basically a non issue at this time. His aorta hasn't grown. There are no structural issues with his heart. And while his cholesterol was normal, it was a bad normal, and the Real Cardiologist is also a lipids specialist, so put E. on medication for that, which is unrelated to any of the issues that put him in the hospital.

E. still has to see another Cardiologist who specializes in the electrical stuff, but this guy we saw Monday is pretty certain the episode last month is not a heart issue but a brain issue and described it as the opposite of the "fight or flight" response, which we now affectionately refer to as the "I think I'm going to lay down and take a nap. Right now." response. Okay, I guess you had to be there for that one. But my husband loves him some nap, any time of the day.

We should know more after the next appointment.

In the meantime, it's all systems go, with no restricted activity.
Well, except for access to the internet.

Post Post Note 1: Work is going to be crazy up to the end. I feel like I'm in a batting cage with three pitching machines, and no bat. Or armor. I'm working late every night and when I get home I have nothing left to think or say. It's going to be a more-than-usual sketchy blog schedule 'til June. And I've not been getting around to read blogs and am behind in correspondence and I really wanted to respond to comments on last few posts, but I just...can't. Right now. Much. But I do appreciate the good thoughts and encouragements.

Post Post Note 2: The Rent a Cardiologist Fuck-pas was the second in a series of two significant miscommunications at the hospital, which caused me undue emotional duress, of the life-threatening variety.

Labels: Deep Shit, I Need Therapy Thursday, Manpie, Scary Shit