Archives for March 2020

I’m overjoyed to report that Mrs. T’s condition has improved significantly since yesterday. She was having problems with “coagulopathy,” which is a fancy way of saying that her blood wasn’t clotting properly, and so she’d been receiving blood transfusions ever since her transplant surgery. No more: the internal bleeding has stopped, she is resting comfortably, and her doctors are completely satisfied with her progress to date.

The next step comes tomorrow. Mrs. T’s chest has been open ever since her surgery, which is standard operating procedure for a double lung transplant (and which absolutely horrified her when she was first told about it a year ago). Assuming that everything continues to go well, they’ll wash out her chest cavity and close her up some time tomorrow. We expect that she’ll remain unconscious for at least another couple of days after that, which is also part of the plan. For now, though, she is continuing to rest comfortably and recover from the surgery.

The nurses ordered me—very politely, but they were firm about it—to stay home from the hospital today. “If you come in, she won’t know that you’re there,” the chief nurse told me. “You might as well rest up now, since she’ll be needing you as soon as she comes around. Stay home and take it easy while you can.” So that’s my plan: old movies, Chinese takeout, and megadoses of music.

More as it happens, but I don’t expect anything more to happen today—and that’s the best of all possible news.

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UPDATE: Mrs. T is still doing just fine as of midday Wednesday. Her chest cavity will be closed up first thing Thursday morning (yes, this is standard operating procedure!). They’ll start to wean her off sedation at that point and begin the gradual process of waking her up. I’ll be there and will keep you posted.

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For previous reports on Mrs. T’s surgery and subsequent recovery, go here and here.

To learn more about her rare illness, go here.

“I used to think that a man ceased to live when he ceased to be in love. Now I know that he ceases to live when he can no longer look forward.”

James Lees-Milne, diary, April 30, 1975

Mrs. T survived her double-lung transplant surgery and was moved to the cardio-thoracic intensive-care unit of New York-Presbyterian Hospital at noon today. She was on the operating table for roughly twenty hours, somewhat longer than expected.

Her doctors tell me that the surgery proper was fairly uneventful. As of this hour, their main concern is that her blood is not yet clotting properly. Hence she is receiving transfusions more or less around the clock while they wait for her body to recover from the “insult” of major surgery—and it doesn’t get any more major than a double-lung transplant—and reset itself.

We should have a clearer idea of what to expect by this time tomorrow. For now, the doctors are describing her condition as “stable but guarded,” which sounds about right to me.

I saw Mrs. T briefly a few minutes ago. She looks about like you’d expect her to look (pretty scary, in other words). She is heavily sedated and will likely be kept unconscious for the next few days. My plan is to divide my time between the ICU waiting room and our apartment, which is only a mile from the front door of the hospital. I have quite a bit of writing to do, and I’m glad for the distraction. I might try to catch a show later this week if she remains stable, but I’m not making any promises.

Once again, no cards, flowers, or calls, please: I need to keep my line clear in case the doctors need to get in touch with me while I’m away from the hospital.

As always—but never more so than now—I am profoundly grateful for your support.

UPDATE: I just spoke on the phone to the thoracic surgeon who performed Mrs. T’s transplant. He is very cautiously pleased with her post-operative progress. As he put it, “We’re not out of the woods yet, but we’re moving in the right direction.” That’s good enough for me to get some sleep tonight!

Victor Borge performs at the Truman White House. This kinescope is an excerpt from an episode of The Colgate Comedy Hour, originally telecast by NBC on January 11, 1953:

(This is the latest in a series of arts- and history-related videos that appear in this space each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday)

“‘Now I want you to tell me just one thing more. Why do you hate the South?’

“‘I don’t hate it,’ Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately; ‘I don’t hate it,’ he said. ‘I dont hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark; I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I dont hate it!’”

William Faulkner, Absalom! Absalom!

We got the Big Call. The transplant coordinator at New York-Presbyterian Hospital phoned Mrs. T on Saturday night with what is known as a “donor offer.” In plain English, a pair of lungs has finally become available for the double lung transplant that she needs in order to save her life. (For those not in the know, go here to read the 2017 posting in which I told her story.) This is the moment for which the two of us have waited ever since she entered the New York-Presbyterian transplant program nearly eight years ago.

Needless to say, we accepted the offer.

As most of you probably know, Mrs. T has been in New York-Presbyterian’s intensive-care unit since mid-December. I was with her when the call came, after which I returned to our apartment to get some preparatory sleep (we live a mile away). When I awoke, I checked in with the hospital and was advised that this offer, unlike the three previous offers that we’ve received since September, was not a dry run but the real right thing: the lungs proved on inspection to be suitable and have now been “harvested.”

Mrs. T is now on her way to the operating room. As for me, I’ve packed a pillow, an assortment of chargers, and a couple of thick books, my sturdy pocket edition of Trollope’s The Way We Live Now (printed on very thin paper) and both volumes of Tully Potter’s Adolf Busch: The Life of an Honest Musician.

We are, in short, as ready as it’s humanly possible to be.

Please don’t call—I need to keep my cellphone line open. No cards or flowers, either, not until much later on: she knows you care, and so do I. I promise to keep you posted, here and on Twitter and Facebook, though it will likely be quite a while before I have anything new to report. We’ve been told to expect Mrs. T to be on the operating table for eighteen hours or so, after which she will spend two or three days in a drug-induced coma, recovering from the surgery. Beyond that, only time will tell.

For now, thanks for your good wishes. They mean more than you can possibly know.

UPDATE: Mrs. T is in surgery—and somewhere out there, the family of her donor is grieving tonight. What can I possibly tell them? We are grateful beyond belief for the gift they have given us so unselfishly. We vow to use it well—and with love.

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For more recent news about Mrs. T’s condition, go here.

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Bill Evans plays “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” The song and orchestral arrangement are by Michel Legrand:

“Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”

Stephen King, “Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption” (from Different Seasons)