Still in the thicky thick but feeling ok

If you are one of the two people who might actually check this blog occasionally, then you know about the latest chapter in my ever-evolving medical history. I'd been home for three months, doing quite well, but am now facing a (supposedly common) setback and have been re-institutionalized for a few days, finding myself without access to basic liberties like getting a cup of coffee, taking a shower, or walking my dog whenever I wish. I'm only 32; maybe someday.

So tomorrow (sometime) is my follow-up biopsy to (hopefully) determine that my new heart is not being rejected by my overly excitable immune system. I'll have to wait 24 hours for the biopsy results, (and let's remember that we are on hospital time, here) and then - with an ounce of really well-deserved luck, I'll be told that I can finally re-return to my life at home with my husband and dog and our upcoming move to the upper west side. This will really hopefully occur on Tuesday; I'd hate to have to stay until Wednesday just because of delayed test results.

Before all of this ridiculously extreme medical stuff happened to me (even before my *other* ridiculously extreme medical stuff back in 2000, I'd always kind of felt that I had a novel in me. I might be a bit too self-absorbed for a novel at this point -- after all, how the hell can I invent characters while my own body repeatedly tries (and fails) to kill me? I can say with 100% certainty that I have a pretty decent memoir brewing. I might co-author this with J_____, since without his support I can't even imagine having gotten through the multiple surgeries and lengthy hospital stays.

Jesus, this is depressing.

Anyone listening?