Just a quick note that I’ve resumed blogging at http://www.jeffzombie.com. Restaurant Fuel will remain up as an archive, but I won’t be continuing it going forward.

Thanks for reading!

On those days, I’m in my sick guy persona — or worse, dead man persona. Jeff the Zombie. The walking dead — it’s hard to get out of that depression, but it happens. Yesterday was also one of those days where acquaintances want to talk to you about how you’re doing, but when you tell them — honestly tell them — they recoil, as if you really are a brain-eating monster. Some people just want to hear good news –I’m just fine! Hoo-haa! — but is that really the right thing to do? To lie?

When you tell them the truth, they want to get the fuck out of the room. Jesus Christ, there’s a brain-eating meat bag in here! Run for the hills!

Some days I do lie. “I’m just feeling tired,” I say, when I’m not tired at all, but experiencing the weird feeling I get when I’m aware that my heart isn’t beating right. Lying makes people happy, though. Good for you! Keep up the good work. You’ll be fine in no time.

But will I be “fine” in no time? Really? Will my heart, which was born broken, suddenly fix itself? Not a chance.

I recently told an old friend of mine what was going on — the email I got back was about as impersonal as anything a complete stranger has said to me since finding out about my cardiomyopathy. Seriously, it could have come from American Greetings, it was so canned. I suspect he may have pulled it off of a “Miss Manners”-style article: “How to respond when an old friend tells you that they’re going to die.” The tone basically turns you into an object — written off, undead, not at all normal or human. It’s like you’re already dead and this person — this former best friend — is talking to your animated corpse, and not a living breathing human being who just happens to be sick. Sorry if you don’t like the smell of leaking guts, man.

The thing that I’m learning is that sick people, dying people, are human beings. There’s more to their lives than just their disease, but so many people around them want to put them in that box. We struggle for it not to be that way — we try as hard as we can to live as normally as we can. I treat my disease as an inconvenience, not a defining personal characteristic. Even less so now, after it because clear to me what was wrong and what the ultimate prognosis was.

Ask them about their families, the weather, the economy. Dying really is a very mundane way of life, especially the slow-motion death march of cardiomyopathy. Someone pointed a gun at me and pulled the trigger — there’s a bullet creeping through time and space and headed straight for my heart. This bullet was probably launched the day sperm met egg and mitosis began. But there’s no way for me to dodge it or take cover — it’s going to hit me some day, but I just don’t know when that day is. And if I end up by some miracle getting a heart transplant, then another slow motion bullet will be launched, this time from within my own body — a bullet called rejection.

And as much as it seems like I care about the bullet, I really don’t. Do you worry about the external forces that can take you down? The possibility of cancer, or heart attack, asbestos poisoning, the impending doom of old age, a car wreck? I’m tired of being defined by the bullet. I’d rather talk about what happened on Lost last week or Battlestar Galactica’s finale.

For instance, I can no longer play video games. I find the physiological response extremely unpleasant — a feeling that my body has been scrubbed out by something and a wash of anxiety. This applies to nearly every game I’ve tried, but especially my old favorite, the first person shooter. I was once a fairly competitive player, but no more. I can’t help but wonder if this is ultimately for the best.

I have cabin fever — I’ve been out of the house just once since I returned a week ago, and there is a part of me that has anxiety about leaving.

However, I am able to watch scripted television again — last night Tina and I watched an episode of Sarah Connor on the DVR, and the night before we watched the Doctor Who Christmas Special. During Doctor Who, I was filled with anxiety and worry, but watching Sarah Connor just 24 hours later, my spirits were better and I was able to pay attention and enjoy the show. This is good.

I’ve also been reading “Team of Rivals,” something I was unable to do last week. I can pay attention and actually get something out of the book.

So things are getting better, but it’s a slow process — a step at a time, and despite the presence of Tina and the girls, it’s a journey I’ve largely undertaken alone.

But incrementally, I’m feeling better. Sitting up longer, on my feet longer, going without anti-anxiety medicine. As each day passes, I begin to realize that sudden death is as unlikely as it was before — that my heart has been like this for a very long while, and gradually I will return to normal. Or what passes for normal for someone with a weak heart.

As for Treasury Secretary, I think Larry Summers would be a huge mistake. He was a bone-headed, tin-eared Harvard President. My preference is for Tim Geithner, who seems a fresher, less controversial figure.

I hope for a win, but I am prepared for the worst.  Polls are one thing, but the vote is the real thing.

We’ll see if the polls were right within a few hours.

Salon has a piece today about the David Foster Wallace suicide.  It’s worth a read.

From Ramesh Ponnuru of the Corner/National Review:

(On the other hand, as Kate O’Beirne just told me, we know that Palin will be ready for that 3 a.m. phone call: She’ll already be up with her baby.)

If the right-wing punditry is making jokes like this it can’t be good for McCain/Palin.