You get no pretty pictures here. Ok? Alright?


You’re going home. You can hear me? You got this tube here, runs up your arm, across your chest, to your central artery. That’s your heart.


This plug’s called a lumen. Keep it clean. Wash your hands. Someone looks at you funny? Wash them again. Medicine goes up the tube into your heart. This freaks you out. Don’t worry. It’s not like you’re gonna put Coca-Cola in here.


Seriously, don’t get clever. Antibiotics, that’s it. Decimates your gut. Try not to get C. diff. How? You religious?


Over here, these two bags. Flush twice a day with ten ounces of saline. Empty them into your toilet, wherever. It’s not hazardous. One drain goes to your kidney. The other one, I don’t know, lower, not important.


You’re not saying anything. Talk. It won’t be so bad as you’re thinking. It’s usually fine. Sometimes worse.


How old’s your daughter? Two. No kidding. What do you tell her?


You tell her Daddy’s a little sick. Easy peasy. She knows sick. She gets colds. Tell her you’ll be better soon. Look in her eyes when you say it. Hold her hand, but don’t squeeze it. You have to believe it. She’ll know.


It’ll be hard enough on her, that you can’t pick her up for some months.


You hadn’t realized?