6/12/08
Sandahbeth went into the hospital April 16th, diagnosed with necrotizing fasciitis. After extensive surgery to remove dead tissue and control the infection, she spent two weeks on a respirator in the ICU. It took several days for the doctors to stop giving me ambiguous answers when I asked about her condition. She recovered enough to be extubated by the beginning of May.

For the next three weeks S showed continued improvement, charming the attendants and fussing over her dinner menu. I put a DVD drive into her laptop so she could watch Netflix in the ward. She asked for her harmonicas and flute and wanted to know when the next gigs were — a little loopy but there. The doctors were guardedly optimistic. The wound was clean, her vitals were good.

Then in the space of a couple days it all turned around. S began having trouble breathing, then was being given oxygen, then a breathing mask, then was knocked out and back on a vent. I was informed that she had a condition called Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome (ARDS), where the lungs inflame to the point that they can't easily absorb air.

Later that week, the resident in charge of the case requested my approval for a tracheotomy. This was in the way of a break point — S had at one point refused a trach, worried that it would harm her voice and saying, "If I can't sing I don't want to be here." But the doctors and nurses assured me that the incision was made well below the larynx and, while she'd be unable to speak or sing while it was installed, once it was removed her voice had a good chance of recovering completely. I concluded that S deserved the right to choose what she wanted with a clear mind and approved the trach.

For several days the ventilation therapy seemed to be helping. S started breathing on her own, was taken off antibiotics and was even conscious. But then her respiration crashed again. She had contracted septicemia from the extensive wound.

This past Monday Sandahbeth had a severe episode of low blood pressure which was only corrected with supportive drugs. Tuesday she started showing signs of renal failure. Wednesday I was brought in for a meeting with the palliative care staff.

For several days the attendants had been trying to gently inform me of the severity of Sandahbeth's condition. At the meeting, I was relatively brusk: okay, you guys think S is dying and you want to know how far I want you to go to hold it off, right?

That brusqueness was the product of a week of the most severe emotional pain I've ever endured. While S has been in dire straits in the past, this is the first time I ever had to confront the apparent actuality that this was it. I made extreme efforts to keep my emotions in check and continue functioning, but at times it was almost more than I could handle. Almost. The Macro The Mighty calendar I made for Yule gifts got it right: for June, the caption is "Macro For President! Because... Two words: Mind Control." Bad joke. Good slogan.

The staff seemed relieved that I was willing to bite the bullet and complimented me on my bravery. Thanks too much. They asked me to describe Sandahbeth. I told them the usual PR, that she was a musician and an artist and lived to create and express herself and perform, and that if she couldn't do any of that that her life would be pretty pointless. But I also said that if she were there at the table, she'd be adamant that she wasn't ready to die yet, that she still had stuff left to do, and that she was very motivated to make it through to do those things. A doctor noted that she had to be pretty tough spirited, because on the face of it anyone with all the things she had wrong with her should have been dead already.

The most likely prognosis of her afflictions being pretty obvious, I made a sop to my barely extant internal hope and asked them for a rainbows-and-pink-unicorns best case scenario. And yes, there is one, although it'll likely be a year before she's out of the treatment path. Still, any port in a storm.

After the meeting, though, I realized that I'd put my finger on the essence of the situation without realizing it. S is a fighter. Her therapists are eternally amazed at how tenaciously she pursues her life in the face of devastating disabilities. She's been slugging it out with Old Man Meester D for a decade, and so far she's 5-0. Even if this is her last fight, even if the black camel is sauntering over to kneel at her tent, she's not gonna go gentle, oh no precious, she's gonna be dragged kicking and screaming every inch of the way. This is, after all, my badass battle babe who loves kung fu movies and once tried to use the voice of command on a crab attached to her finger — "Let go! LET GO, I SAY!" Death may always win, but he's gonna know he's been in a scrap.

So I'm going in daily, singing to her, holding her as much as the machines will allow, telling her what a trooper she is and how proud I am and how much I love her. That I've got her back.

And somewhere, dear friends, I see a well-lit arena, a screaming throng, an ambiguous ringmaster announcing "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN AND OTHERS!! IN THIS CORNER, IN THE BLACK, WELL, EVERYTHING, WEIGHING IN AT A GODZILLION POUNDS: DEEEEEAAAAAATTHHH! AND IN THIS CORNER, IN THE CRIMSON SPANDEX JUMPSUIT WITH THE FETCHING MEXICAN WRESTLING STYLE MASK, WEIGHING IN AT CONSIDERABLY TRIMMER THAN SHE WAS BEFORE SHE WENT ON THE HOSPITAL FOOD DIET, SAAAANNNNNNDAAAAAHHHHBEEEEEETTTHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

"LET...THE...BATTLE...BEGINNNNNNN!!!!!!!!"

Put on the popcorn, kids, it's The Main Event.