Yesterday afternoon, Bao brought me one of his toys. It's his way of saying, Okay! Time for our afternoon walk! It's the first time he's done this in nearly six weeks. And this morning, he walked all the way to the fountain and back, nearly a mile, his normal, morning walk.

He's improving.

Tomorrow we go to see Dr. Mike, and I'm nervous about that. Blood tests and ultrasound scans are wonderful, but they're also a two-edged sword. There is such a thing as too much information, too many possibilities and none of them good. It's a shame that all the tests search for what's wrong, rather than what's right. On the other hand, we wouldn't have known about the pericardial infusion without the ultrasound, and -- undiagnosed -- that would have killed Bao within hours.

Meanwhile, normal is nice. Normal is more than nice. Normal is -- as they'd say in Australia -- bloody wonderful. I'm thinking, we don't appreciate normal. Bao has spent his whole life eating and sleeping, peeing and pooping, playing and enjoying his little walks -- and I always took all of that for granted. Now, every mouthful is an achievement and every walk is a triumph to be celebrated.

One of my friends said this has been harder on me than it has on Bao, and (although I'm not the one who almost died) there's some truth to that. Bao is a happy camper again, but I'm still shaky.

But we're still together, and that's something.

Actually, that's everything.