Eating Pop-Tarts at Home

Dave is home! He was discharged yesterday afternoon. I went to the hospital to pick him up and accompany him back to the house, helping him carry his meager bags. The move was a huge undertaking for someone who hadn't walked farther than the bathroom for the past week.

But he got home just fine, and he's been eating yogurt and a little bit of green pea soup and even Pop-Tarts. (At this point I'm happy to get anything into him, even if it's nutritionally suspect.)

It feels so good to have him here, to come back to some semblance of normalcy. I think even Olga is relieved. She's still in bed at the moment, sleeping off her nervous exhaustion like Joan Crawford.

And not to make this all about me, but I'll be happy if I never have to go to that hospital again. Not that Dave didn't receive great care there -- he did. We're thankful for the NHS and the hospital staff and the facility itself. I've just seen way too much of hospitals during the past three weeks or so!

Throughout this experience of Dave's illness and surgery, and my Dad's concurrent illness and surgery, people kept asking me, "How are you?" I've never known how to answer that question. I mean, day to day, I've been fine -- a little harried, but I just get up and get going and do whatever needs to be done. I  haven't had time to be too emotionally rattled! How am I? Well, I'm not sure.

I think I'd have been much worse off if I ever had any doubts about Dave's ultimate recovery, but I didn't. Knock on wood.

People at work have been great, I must say. They've offered to bring us food and buy us gift baskets,  they've sent roses and cards. (It's amazing how much water a vase of roses can suck up, by the way.) It's trite to say we're lucky, but we are.

(Photo: This mysterious office, which advertises visa services and property management, among other things, never seems to be open. Yet there's always a huge mound of garbage piled out front.)