The title of this post is another way C. described his condition in the days before going into the hospital.
I got a call from a social worker at SFGH yesterday morning about trying to contact C.’s brother. I called C.’s roommate, J., but not only did he not answer, his answering machine was off, so I left work, rushed to the hospital, picked up C.’s keys (the social worker arranged for them to be released), went to his place and dug up his brother’s number (and picked up his mail, to check for bills to be paid), and went home and called the social worker back.
After work, I went back to the hospital, and C. and I were having a particularly nice conversation when two visitors arrived. Before they left, another visitor arrived, and then another, and then two more.
I decided it was time to give up and go have dinner. On my way out of the hospital, I met yet another visitor heading up to see C. I went to El Metate for a burrito and when I got back, two visitors were there (one who had been there when I left and a new one). By that time, the congenial topic of conversation was far gone from C.’s mind, but there was nothing to be done. (Something I’ve had to say to myself a lot: It’s going to go the way it’s going to go.)
C.’s biopsy is scheduled for today, and they wanted to do another MRI last night before doing the biopsy. He said it would be good if I went down with him, so I did, but he emerged from the MRI pretty much sound asleep. It was past 9:30, but Charlie had said I could call him as late as 10, so I gave him a call and he picked me up and gave me a ride home.