The last couple of weeks have been almost laughably disastrous:
I spent my birthday evening at small claims court in the Bronx because my doctor’s crooked ex-partner is trying to sue me for money he fraudulently says I owe. The court was adjourned because the slimy plaintiff and I have — duh — conflicting testimony. Unbelievably, I will have to go back. I oddly enjoyed going to the Bronx and hearing the ruggedly exotic Bronx accents; truly otherworldy.
On Sunday an amazing birthday party for me and Kim and Brenda last Sunday, generously DJ’d by Marc Nasdor. This was not disastrous, but a very joyous little respite from what was to come the next day: I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching Pan’s Labyrinth and shuddering, commenting on how gory it was. Gary was sitting at his drawing table organizing his pens, and said a little snidely, “It’s magic realism.” (A genre we have both expressed annoyance with in the past).
I don’t remember exactly how long after he said that — maybe fifteen seconds, maybe two minutes, but certainly not very long after, he let out a horrific AUUGGGHH and I saw a calligraphy pen stuck in the back of his hand like an arrow. He pulled it out. There was blood everywhere. We rushed to the kitchen sink and applied pressure, which helped the bleeding stop, and then got a car service to the E.R., where we waited for hours and Mitch came to distract us for a while. An x-ray revealed that the tip of the pen nib, an malevolent little barbed thing, was stuck deep in Gary’s hand. There was a hand surgeon on duty and he made an incision but couldn’t get it out, so on Wednesday poor Gary had to have real surgery with total anaesthesia. He’s now healing nicely
but in the meantime, I caught a terrible cold. It feels very strange as I haven’t had a cold for about five years. I thought I was above such things. Guess not.