As a patient in Albuquerque, I was going to have to travel, and my CF clinic gave me three options: a children's hospital in Denver, a hospital in Phoenix (that had, at the time, performed exactly one double lung transplant), or Stanford mothafuckin' Hospital in California. It was the equivalent of asking whether I'd prefer to meet Aquaman, get a high-five from the Wonder Twins, or have Batman swoop in, save my ass from a fire, then take me out for a late-night breakfast-dinner of waffles just to make sure I was handling things OK, maybe walk me home, tuck me in, cuddle up beside me until I drifted slowly to sleep, his comforting, gauntleted arms holding me tighter and tighter ...
My point is that Stanford sounded much better.
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"This one gasps whenever you mention Batman. He does need new lung!"
Still, I had to move my whole life to California. Because everything went down so quickly and unpredictably, my wife and I wound up relocating states with a single carry-on-sized bag to our name, and had to leave our puppy with her parents. I feel guilty constantly about dragging my wife into this (thanks for that, Catholicism). She, meanwhile, feels terrible because I feel terrible, plus she's doing all the chores, working remotely part-time, taking care of me, fundraising, and dealing with all the insurance/pharmacy/hospital bullshit, because that woman is an angel and, despite all my efforts to the contrary, she loves me and refuses to divorce me.