04 February 2015


Where you get off when you miss your stop on the 172A bus.

What's it like to withdraw from reality and move in with someone you love to take care of him after major surgery? What's required? How does it work?

Well, you get less knitting done than you thought you might. There's the odd row here and there but mostly there is just too much else to do. What with all the laundry and the food preparation. The bandage changing. The linen changing. The bathing. Managing the medication schedule alone takes a surprising amount of time and energy. Five different drugs all with different timetables!

I missed my cats less than I thought I would. The Daughter took them to her place and I had expected to be constantly worrying about them. I wasn't. See above.

I've always been remarkably good at the nitty gritty bits of life. At heart I am a deeply practical and organized person, especially in moments of crisis. Still, in the midst of all the pragmatism and the "getting it done", there was a myriad of emotions. Big ones like the terror of early morning fever and uncontrollable shaking. "Should I call 911?" There was that warm feeling of gratitude toward ER staff the day we did have to go in with scary post-op complications. There was the evening I found myself sobbing in the bathroom for no apparent reason. There were also some embarrassing, seemingly petty worries. "I haven't worn makeup or shaved my legs in days. He's never seen me like this." And there were spontaneous silly outbursts like when I said he made that walker look sexy. "Ladies!" he cried, and we laughed and laughed.

Thankfully, he's out of danger now. I've moved back home. I still go every day and spend some nights but I'm slowly emerging back into reality. The thing is, "reality", such as it is, doesn't feel very real. Buying coffee, sending emails, even shaving my legs - it's all very nice. It just seems a whole lot less important right now.

Except for the cats of course. The cats are important. They told me so the day I brought them home.

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