I feel like a kid in the backseat of a station wagon. Mom’s wearing a scarf over her hair and tied at her chin, because the windows are open and she doesn’t want to muss her hair.
“We’ll get there when we get there.”
I think it’s because our doctor definitely has a 1950’s vibe.
We’re on this road trip, in the back of the car, and we’d kind of like to be at our destination, which is a complete recovery, and home. I’m trying not to “are we there yet,” but I’m young in this, and I’m curious, and I want to know. Each doctor visit, it’s like we’re handed a juice box to placate us in our back seat of knowledge.
We’ve been told a whole month, another week, and everything in between. We’ll get there when we get there.
We had a floating nurse come in the other night, and go through the whole drill with us, and though her only job was to check his vitals, felt incumbent upon herself to tell us we’d be here a month, and again, we need to rent a house, and she wished we could move in with her but she can’t take in all the strays……and wow. We love all the care we are getting here, but occasionally there’s that odd experience. Part of the bigger odd experience of going about your business one day, and hooked up to drip lines the next.
I’m fitting in a little too well here at the hospital. I shared on facebook already that I’ve been mistaken for what, I’m not sure….I’d gone to the family room the other morning in my jammies, cardigan and some crazy wild unbrushed hair. There were two men, one with a badge sitting in the room. I never see anyone in the room, which also at times holds staff meetings, so I was afraid I’d interrupted something. They said no, and one stood up hoping I could help him. He pulled out a slip of paper wanting to know if the patient in room whatever was out of her shower yet. Um. My husband is a patient here too, and while I’m up on the gossip, I haven’t reached hygiene level gossip yet.
I guess I’ll have to get to work brushing up on what goes on behind closed doors.
Behind closed doors. I just want to know what every beep and alarm means. I love that the nurse’s call button makes a harp sound. Seriously. Like a quick stroke across the harp all gentle and angelic. I figured that one out. But, there’s another alarming sound I hear every so often and I’m wondering if people are really stroking out or what? Turns out it’s the bed alarm. Some patients, as I mentioned earlier, are confused. There is an alarm in the bed, so if they get up, it sets it off. Do you think I should play a little trick on Dom?
Dom. I mentioned he was doing his laps yesterday? He and the nurses are comparing their steps on their iPhones and fit bits and he is lapping them. Ha ha! He walked over 6 miles yesterday. It’s the whole make hay while the sun is shining thing, and the sun has been shining on him. He has felt really well the past few days, so he has done all he can in anticipation of rougher days after the next round of chemo, starting today.
Seeing him so strong and active has really helped me. I couldn’t quite picture how things would look, as he was so ill the first several days we were here. But these last few days, I can see that we will be able to resume normalcy over time, and he will be behind the camera in no time. No push to get him back to work, but always the desire he resume the things he loves.
We had a ninja nurse last night. She prides herself on getting in and out without waking the patient. That was really nice to hear that’s important to her. I also thought for a moment I’d set some landmines to see just how ninja she really is. She laughed please no. I also want to put a post it on the computer/robot creature that should nestle in the corner between a cabinet and the wall. Every day it’s wheeled a little further out in the path between myself and the door. Nobody puts baby in the corner, it should say.
I feel the same way about Dom. Nobody puts baby in the corner. He’ll be out dancing in no time.