This will also be a Blue Moon, since it barely squeaks by as the second full moon in the same month. That moldy oldie "Blue Moon" will be looping through my brain all day. Talk about a night to howl!
For a couple of days I've been practicing three songs to sing in Spanish and English at La Palapa's Open Mic with Los Cuatos (The Twins) and their band on New Year's Eve. The big challenge, since there's no rehearsal, is that I have to guess where to come in, whether they want an instrumental break, how they usually end the song (do I repeat the last line, do they slow down for the last note?) If I asked these questions, would it make me appear impossibly amateurish? It's possible by the time I get onstage everyone will have become so plastered they won't hear me anyway. Vamos a ver.
Yesterday V and I visited Tim at the hospital and he is, if possible, even thinner than before. He is refusing to take nourishment, either because he is attempting to hurry the process he's going through or because being fed through a feeding tube is such a grotesque experience. When we asked about it, he said he'd have it later. He is still taking sips of water. He wears his mask all the time now and we found it hard to understand him when he talked, so he tried to shout, which left him exhausted.
Staff often paused at the door to peer in at him. "Now that they know I'm dying, I'm getting vigilancia," he said, with a wry grin. The head floor nurse had ordered vigilance on this patient two weeks ago, but until now they weren't taking the order seriously. We all wondered if the presence of his laptop sitting beside him had anything to do with the increased attention.
He seems to be viewing his death as a sort of finish line. He asked me to fish his watch out of his drawer, and then ruminated for a while over who he'd give it to. His watch had become very important to him. V and I each took a foot and gave him foot massage, which made him smile, but it's hard to tell whether he is giving us the reaction we're hoping for in order to show his gratitude for our visits, or whether touch actually feels good to him. His feet were icy cold. Mostly we alternated between fussing over him and sitting quietly, holding his hands, while he stared at the ceiling.
A teenage orderly came in with a bag of canned nutrient (pretty much the same as Ensure) and an invoice, which we were expected to pay. We checked Tim's cabinet and found almost a dozen identical cans there, so we sent the orderly away, telling him we didn't need any more. Apparently the hospital includes solid-food meals in its services, but the liquid used in the feeding tube is considered an extra item. We found quite a few unopened tubes of mysterious ointments and unguents which he never used, and wondered how much they'll add to his bill. They seem to run an average of $35 each. Mexican hospitals don't release patients until their bills are paid, but that's one worry Tim won't be troubled with.