Dear Mr. ______,
We were saddened to hear of Susannah's passing.
We hope that the good memories of life with her will help you through this difficult time.
Dr. Something or Other Pan
The Staff at Oncology/Hematology/Infusion
Kaiser Santa Clara
Bryan was doing whatever guys do when they just kind of stare into the engine of their truck when I walked passed him to get the mail. Hey, you got something handwritten from Kaiser, I said, want me to open it? So I did, his head under the hood of his truck. I'm dead, I said, and then he stood up and we just kind of stared at each other.
It sucks to find out you're dead as the result of a clerical error, particularly two days after you have gotten such good MRI results. But there it was signed in black and white: I had passed away. And they were sorry about it.
So was I.
Even though it's a few hours south, Santa Clara is where I had to go for hematology after I returned from Israel. Apparently, they oversee an HSCT program for leukemia at Stanford and are familiar with stem cell/bone marrow transplant after-care. But I haven't seen them in a few months now. Just another huh? in the long, strange story of my health. I am dead to them. What can I say? You win some, you lose some.
Of course I have put in a call to let them know that I am still alive. Unless this is some M. Night Shyamalan movie starring me as a dead woman who thinks she is still alive, in which case this is a really cool blog. But I don't think so. I think this blog is just kinda' meh and they have me mistaken for another Susannah with a husband named Bryan whose good memories of life with her will have to suffice to help him through this difficult time. That time. Whose time?
All I know is this: if I am dead, then I am here to tell you that there is no tunnel of white light. Just squabbling children, tortillas with black beans and extra cilantro, and a sunny, cold Sunday afternoon in a house that smells like fresh laundry. Don't worry--if this is it, death is pretty fucking amazing.