Samantha arrives this evening. Our friends will collect her at the airport, take her to dinner, and bring her to our home. I'm sad we won't be there to greet her. Things look much different this hospital stay. It's definitely a season of flexibility as things shift and change moment by moment.
I'm hoping that Dom is well enough to be discharged tomorrow, and he can go home for a day or two. I'm hoping for so many things all the time, all day long.
My heart has broken a million times over sitting with Dom in so much pain. Each break and crack is mended by the love we feel, from so many people. Our group of support has grown to include many of Sam's friends. It is no surprise that such a beautiful soul would attract more beautiful souls. There is no possible way I can ever express my gratitude for all the love and support.
It seems also that people are sprouting wings every where I go. I'm both strong as can be and fragile as a dried leaf. Oh how I love my pardoxes. The smallest gestures of kindness are magnified a thousand fold when one is facing mountains.
Speaking of mountains, Dom relayed to the nurse his acknowledgement this would be the most grueling thing he'd endure. I suggested we climb Mount Everest when he's better. This is going to be incredibly grueling. The unexpected blizzards will come and test our mettle. But there is a summit. And just as one prepares to ascend Everest, they do not stay there forever. And then one day, they are back in their small town, normal life. We will summit this mountain, but we will not stay on it.
On a lighter note, the doctor is fascinated by a Northern Englishman with Irish roots who does not have a stomach made of steel. I picked up that perhaps the Doctor's years in college were not entirely devoted to studies as he referenced all the times in school he would not allow himself to be sick. If you are familiar with doctors who are all business, then this glimpse into his personal life is quite human. Our nurses all seem a little cowed by him, and note surprise when he jokes with Dom. He seems quite compassionate as Dom struggles through this round. Compassionate, and still able to tease a little.
As for me, I am terrified of forgetting to lock the wash room door in the common room. The line is so blurred between this being home, and this being a public space that I sometimes forget to lock the door. Though, all things considered, the indignity of having someone interrupt me there is a drop in the bucket compared to all that Dom has to endure. I find it amusing that the parade of people that enter his room find it more important to holler out a hello and make their presence known than enter quietly and as if the person in the room is actually quite ill and not hanging out at the pub. I'm sure Dom would much rather be startled naked than be woken up one more time by a nurses aid who wants to check his water or a floating nurse who wants to appear busy. Yesterday, after the admissions woman woke us both up, and I whispered all my responses to her, and she continued to practically yell hers back, Dom lamented no one really has an inside voice in the hospital. We love the laughter outside our door, as the nurses may release some tension with a good story or joke. We just can't comprehend the steady stream of loud talkers that think Norm has just entered the bar.
I've also nearly walked into our old room several times. Hand on handle, just about to stumble into another family cocoon. Thankfully, I have not, and at least I hope I'd know to use my inside voice.