I've been ruminating, and recalled a post a made when I had just started blogging that seems appropriate here.
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August 30, 2004
[ family ]
There are certain times when an ache in some muscles might surprise you, cause you to wonder "Now where could I have..." only to interrupt yourself with an "Oh yeah..." of dawning understanding and a smile of quiet reminiscence. For the rest of the day, every time those muscles complain, the pleasant memories flood back of the activity that required such unusual exertion.
This Monday morning, the ache was mostly in my biceps, and the "Aha" was the recollection of the little one eventually falling asleep, face down, straddling my arm. She slept for almost two hours, through the latter part of our Sunday meal and our subsequent browsing in the magical educational toystore, not even stirring during the occasional shifting from arm to arm to evenly distribute the strain.
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[ grind ]
And I truly needed these momentary smiles this morning. There was the vague feeling of unease, the subtle coiling of tension in the pit of my stomach. Whenever someone would greet me with a cheery "How are you?" I would be tempted to answer sincerely, letting it all spill out but instead replying with the expected "Fine, and you?"
I even started fooling myself, and ignored my own clock watching, until my sister called to hear if there had been any news.
I could barely speak to her, did not want to speak to her. Didn't have any news, was terrified that she had had some news, and did not want to sit through her bumbling attempts to make me (and herself) feel better. Did not, in fact, want to be responsible for anyone else's feeling better. And despite the fact that waiting calls result in a loud, insistent external ring, I was irrationally afraid that a vital call from the hospital would find my line engaged and I would miss it.
Both of us would scoff at superstition, yet both of us carefully skirted around words, choosing our language hesitantly, clumsily, until she slipped and said "if anything happened" and desperately tried to make it better and just made it worse and the anxiety - until now coiled quietly - reared up and shoved its head against my heart, pushing it up into my throat and choking off my breath, my heartbeat reverberating in my head.
We are too close, and we have survived tragedies and devastation such as no child should experience. I learnt that the hard way and not even the fact that we were there for one another could stop the unthinkable from happening to us.
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[ the wait ]
Propped myself up on one elbow to squint through the darkness over mpo's form at the glowing digits of the clock radio. With a start, I sat upright and woke him. It's 5.30 a.m. already! He had set the alarm for 5.00 p.m. by mistake.
We reached the hospital just after 6 a.m. and went through the admission process. I was being torn apart inside when I left, but going to work in the morning while he would be busy, then taking the afternoon off to be with him until he is released and getting him settled at home made much more sense.
The way to work took me through the store-lined street, a different route than the one I normally take. The early morning gloom with all the disembodied lights added to the feeling of dislocation, as did a light fog that did not hinder driving but gave interesting depth and layers to the trees beyond the road.
Waiting for the phone to ring from the hospital, watching the clock tick over on the computer, checking my watch, checking the clock on the phone's display, wondering why it is getting so late and no word yet.
When it did ring it was almost eleven. The number of the incoming call was one I did not know. My throat so tight, I don't know how I managed to squeeze out the words. It's my precious one. He is not getting discharged this afternoon; the angiogram indicated they had to perform an angioplasty and place some stents. He needs to be in hospital over-night. He says all is well, he feels fine.
I am trembling, relieved, worried, anxious. Tried to make myself stay at work until 11.30 but couldn't manage it; I was doing the same piece of work over and over again anyway, forgetting how far I got last time, reading the same paragraph three times and still not knowing what it said.
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[ hospital ]
He is smiling. He has no pain. He is hooked up to an IV and an automatic blood pressure monitor. He is not allowed to lift his head until four hours after the procedure, nor to cross his ankles.
He looks so ... tiny, so frail amid the white of the sheets and the white of the covers and the pale of the walls and the white of the gown.
He says he is feeling fine, but the lines on his face seems deeper and his eyelids somehow heavier.
They are giving him diuretics to flush the iodine out of his system and an intravenous solution to keep blood clots from forming at the stents they have placed inside his arteries. As before, the first thing the nursing staff asks when they enter the room is the level of his pain. As before they appear continually astounded when he assures them that he has no pain at all.
Lunch arrives: Canned tomato soup, and a greasy toasted cheese sandwich made with processed cheese. He is still not allowed to lift his head, so I help. He can take the sandwich cut in smaller triangles in his hand. The soup has to be spoonfed, to someone completely horizontal. The soup is so thick it stays on the spoon until he has to lick it off. Fed him an entire bowl of pinkish-reddish orange tomato soup and not a speck of it on the sheets. Wonder what that would do to your insides.
The guy in the other bed is discharged sometime during the afternoon. During their joint stay in the room, the curtain between the beds had been drawn. When general conversations are taking place on either side, both sides of the curtain keep the volume relatively low. When something important is going on, the other side respectfully keeps quiet; pretending that every word cannot be heard and that no-one is listening anyway.
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The afternoon slips into that curious hospital rhythm. Lazy conversation, punctuated by someone entering either to do something to the room, or do something to the patient. While he has to lie flat, and with the IV needle in his hand, he can't read his book. So I start reading aloud, a pleasure we frequently enjoy when we have the time. A mystery novel - British police procedural actually - it has some racy bits in the beginning as one of the characters fantasize about another. Soon after this passage, the nurse appears to note his blood pressure. The systolic pressure is up by 32 over his earlier reading. I am starting to doubt the wisdom of reading to him in his condition. As the afternoon progresses, my theory is debunked, however. His blood pressure keeps going up and down with no relation to the reading of the book.
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Dinner has problems. He can sit up and eat by himself now, only to lift the lid and discover: Meatloaf! The lunch card had VEGETARIAN stamped on it in blue. I check the dinner card - no such indication. I take the plate to the nursing station, make sure they change the entry to "Vegetarian, no meat, no eggs. Dairy OK." Then we wait for the replacement to arrive. Actually, the fact that he had to wait is not too bad. They brought dinner around 5.15 p.m. - much too early for him in general. The garden burger arrived around 6 p.m. If I remember correctly, that's the same thing they fed him for dinner last time he stayed in hospital. Either coincidence, or they just don't know what to feed vegetarians.
::The room faces West. The sun is setting when the nursing shift changes. When the new CNA comes in to introduce herself and record his vital signs, I am contorting
myself at the window frame trying to capture the way the light reflects off the black metal window frames of the wing to our South.
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[ meandering ] The full moon was yellow tonight. Or rather the color of well-aged manuscript. It hung, improbably suspended and huge, seemingly just outside arm's reach above the road. The road keeps twisting back and forth, so at one moment the orb is 
framed by the dark forms of the trees lining the street, and the next it is darting teasingly out of the way to hide among their branches, coyly staying beyond the traveler's grasp. I drive, mesmerized by the sight, keeping track of the tail lights ahead only peripherally. On nights like this I can understand the power the moon have exerted on the imagination and lives of people, before we had filled the night with artificial lights and started holding people's minds captive with television.
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I'm exhausted, drained, relieved that my precious one is doing well, and feeling utterly guilty for not staying beyond 9 p.m. And no matter how much I rationalize it, listing the reasons for leaving, like the necessity of going to work in the morning, the frowning of the hospital staff, the torture of the chair in the room, the fact that he really is fine - I just can't stop feeling bad about leaving him there, lost in the white.
My Precious One, my husband of more than five years, my soul mate.
She loves fantasy sci-fi and horrors along the Stephen King line.
She has a wicked sense of humor, a hard shell, and marshmallow inside.
