It’s been five days now, with the view framed above serving as my solitary window on the world.
Hospital life is defined entirely by that peculiar rhythm of hurry up and wait. You rush through an ER blood draw, wait around for an ultrasound, get wheeled off for an X-ray, take a detour for a CT scan, wait for yet another ultrasound, and finally hold still for an MRI. And through every single step, hum of heavy machinery, and quiet corridor, you wait for results.
After three days of that scattered routine, the culprit was finally handed a proper name: a staphylococcus infection. A nasty one, to be fair. All that waiting has been generously punctuated by the steady, intravenous drip of industrial-strength antibiotics. At this point, I think it’s safe to say I can no longer slap an “all-organic” label on myself.
Then came yesterday’s announcement. I was informed that I’d be living strictly NPO starting at midnight, meaning we were supposedly throwing a surgery party. Waking up meant no water and—the true indignity—no morning coffee. I lay there and watched the breakfast cart rattle right past my open doorway. A few hours later, I watched the lunch delivery breeze on by, too.
Mid-afternoon rolled around, and my nurse finally called down to check on the surgical schedule. Questions were asked. The answers given were not well-liked. When the dust settled, my little party had been officially postponed until next Monday.
My very first executive decision was asking my wife to hunt down a twelve-inch turkey and cheese sub from Subway.
As I sit here putting down these musings, I’m finally nursing the first cup of coffee I’ve been allowed to enjoy all day. In a little while, I’ll settle in for night number six in this room, spending it the only way I know how—dreaming of the simple luxury of waking up in my own bed.
A late visit from my doctor brought me the news that our new party day is now Friday!
