Two nights ago I was talking to one of my dearest friends on the phone. Charlie Watson (not his real name) and I are occasionally virtual drinking buddies; he lives in New Jersey and I live in Las Vegas, we grab some wine or vodka or tequila, we choose a topic, and we talk while we drink.
The subject of my father's health was broached (as it often is of late) and I found myself in one of the most heart-wrenching conversations I have ever been in. I explained to Charlie more about Dad's congestive heart failure, his heart attack and bypass, and the hole they found in his heart and the new decision to replace a valve.
The latter was more like a suggestion instead of a decision; my father's personal choice is to forgo another open-heart surgery in the face of recovery times and quality of life issues. He has wondered aloud if the six months or so he might get would be better served spending time with his family in his awkward state of mobility and clarity rather than an even weaker state than before; another surgery would mean a longer and harder recovery... it's exponential in a patient with his history and he doesn't want to experience a deeper state of weakness, of loss.
