“There must always be two kinds of art, escape-art, for man needs escape as he needs food and deep sleep, and parable-art, that art which shall teach man to unlearn hatred and learn love.”

W.H. Auden, “Psychology and Art To-day”

Billy Joel performs “New York State of Mind” on The Mike Douglas Show. This episode was taped on August 9, 1976:

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

“Even for spirits less fastidious than Strachey’s, there is, even at the best of times, a great charm in the past. Time, that sedulous artist, has been at work on it, selecting and rejecting with great tact. The past is a work of art, free from irrelevancies and loose ends. There are, for our vision, comparatively few people in it, and all them are interesting people. The dullards have all disappeared—all but those whose dullness was so pronounced as to be in itself for us an amusing virtue. And in the past there is so blessedly nothing for us to worry about. Everything is settled. There’s nothing to be done about it—nothing but to contemplate it and blandly form theories about this or that aspect of it.”

Max Beerbohm, “Lytton Strachey” (courtesy of Anecdotal Evidence)

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)