Rob's CRT was scheduled for 11am this morning; because his blood sugar was only 72 they delayed it awhile (note: his BG is usually so out of whack that 72 is considered unconsciousness-level low for him. Yay). So, he's in there and I'm out here in the waiting room (which thankfully has a computer avec la Ninterweb...).
(The Ninterweb is, of course, Tess-ish for Internet. It's a bastardisation of "Interweb" - the origin of which escapes me - and includes the now-ubiquitousness of adding the letter "N" to every word which begins with a vowel. And plenty that don't, now I think about it).
The procedure itself is fairly minor, considering it's basically poking wires into your heart. Read more here
if you're interested.It's the waiting, you know? The waiting around. That, and knowing that even with this device, the longterm prognosis is unaffected.
70% with congestive heart failure die within 5 years of diagnosis; realistically, heart transplantation is the only hope at cure.
God, that sucks so much I can't even quantify it.
Still, I'm trying to keep us both uplifted, which isn't as easy as it sounds (and it doesn't sound easy). Rob's still in a varying degree of denial about the condition and his situation, which I think is probably healthier for him mentally at this point. He's just so young. And it's happened so damn quickly. In many ways Rob has been the - admittedly cynical - poster child for "Why Not To Smoke. Like, seriously dude".
I think I need coffee.
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