We've displayed a few of Dave's "Get Well" cards on this table in our foyer -- the fish card, from my coworkers, and the dog-and-toilet card, from Dave's sister. They stand in front of some of my old family photos, in the company of a wild-looking skull pub coaster I found while walking Olga, and a badger-themed card we bought in York last summer. The table is covered with a piece of wax cloth from Ghana, and the covered glass bowl with the elephant came from my grandmother.
Now that you've received an unasked-for tour of our foyer table, let me get to the meat of the matter: Dave came through yesterday's surgery just fine. We went to the hospital at 11 a.m. and I sat with him while he registered and changed into one of those flimsy gowns and had his vital stats taken, and while nurses filled out pages and pages of documents, all asking the same questions: Date of birth? Allergic to any medicines? Any religious affiliation? (A disconcerting question in this environment.)
Then, his doctor -- after explaining the procedure -- sent me home. There's no point in waiting at the hospital, he said, because Dave would be in surgery for three to five hours and, adding recovery time, I'd be sitting doing nothing for most of the day. Better to go home and be comfortable, he said. Dave agreed, so after bidding him farewell (in a very temporary sense) at the OR doors, I came home.
I stayed busy all afternoon, mowing the lawn, cleaning the house and sending e-mails to family members. Finally the surgeon called at 6:39 p.m. saying everything had gone well, and I went to the hospital at 8 p.m. to see Dave. After some confusion about which ward he'd be on, and some delays in bringing him up from recovery -- where I was not allowed to go -- I saw him about 10 p.m. Drowsy and on pain meds, he otherwise seemed fine.
So now we begin the process of healing, which will entail several more days in the hospital and then some time off at home. But at least Dave has jumped the biggest hurdle.