Homecoming

(Yesterday I meant to write about my homecoming, but I got sidetracked by the Newsweek article.)

My "ride home" Paula of Ice House fame burst into my room filled with good humor and potential material for her next standup routine. "The hospital might be called Hope, but the parking lot is hopeless," she quipped in reaction to a 20 minute search for a car slot. Paula hasn't had to struggle so hard to find parking since the last shoe sale at Nordstrom's. We think it might be a good idea for her to become ordained as a Unitarian minister so that she can score one of the choice parking spots reserved for the clergy.

As we made the drive from Duarte to Altadena, we both made the ironic observation that room visitors are required to scrub up and don surgical masks, and yet we had no protection against the brown smog that hugged the mountains that day.

After a quick trip to Ralph's Market and Webster's Pharmacy, I settled in for an hour-long nap. My white blood cell counts are still high, but, after a week of sleepless nights in the hospital, I was exhausted.

Later that night, with two purring cats, one barking dog, one snoring husband and one noisy teen filling the house, I slept like a baby. Life is good.