[img]2624|right|||no_popup[/img]Our new neurological team at a San Francisco hospital had told us last week that after Diane had filed her written consent to participate in clinical trials, they would contact us with a starting date in two to four weeks.
Thrillingly, it was more like two to four hours.
The day after Diane gave her assent to join other patients with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis in a research-driven experiment, we were informed that our first clinic was set for the final week of the month.
We are on the way, I trust.
The seemingly lightning pace of scheduling in San Francisco was like awakening to two suns in the morning sky.
However, in our daily routine, there is an unbroken chain of reminders that our lives together are bumping along an embryonic path.
Diane’s health has reached the stage where we are attending a funeral this morning in tandem. My presence is required to manipulate her walker in and out of her car.
For this reason, we go to certain appointments together because her strength has ebbed.
Two nights ago, Diane probably was awake longer than she was in the arms of Morpheus because of certain extreme discomforts.
What to do to be comforting in any way.
I, the former illegal alien in the kitchen, now make Diane’s dinner each evening. Even with 22nd century technology, no one can explain how this is possible.
I am reminded of a restaurant sign I saw in Santa Cruz last week – “Many have eaten here. Few have died.”
