Tubular hell

Was snoozing around on the computer late yesterday afternoon when the muscle (trying to think of a word or phrase to convey their junior status that juxtaposes amusingly with their highly refined skills and personalities) of my surgeon's thoracic surgery posse (see above) showed up.

The daily X-ray had shown that something -- either a perforation in the second chest tube, or the end of the tube itself -- was basically at skin level, doing no good and perhaps inviting infection. Five minutes of set-up and a good, firm yank later, and I was tubeless.

Tubeless.

My side and back still ache. I would need a Madoff-style ponzi scheme to pay for enough chiropractic payments or massages to get my tortured body back in shape. Despite my best attempts to look decent, a cleaning guy mistook L. for my daughter today. ("Dude, my daughter is five. I'm 37.")

But that's kvetching. I'm now tubeless and presumably healing. I could move with dramatically more fluency and less fear minutes after the second tube was gone. I slept better than I have in quite a while. Going home suddenly don't just feel realistic, it feels imminent. (It isn't, however. But tomorrow is possible and Saturday a virtual certainty barring significant complication.)

My heart is still heavy, but at least I am tubeless.