So many signs we failed/refused to heed. “Failed” and “refused” given equal prominence; maybe I still want to come clean. Others call these signs “premonitions,” a term that encapsulates all the morbidity one could ever get. There was, for instance, Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking, delivered to our house on Christmas Eve. I put off reading it for some forgotten reason. Only to rediscover it a few days after we said goodbye to him; Didion apparently lost her husband to that thing they call ventricular fibrillation. That bit in the death certificate still whirls in my head.
The best I could do is google, barter for some more information. Perhaps there’s no winning this case: no more putting the pieces together, no more finding the answers lost in the cancelled 2D-echo and abdominal ultrasound tests. One is only left to mourn the absence of the necessary answers.
