Blood in the Elevator

Dave's hernia surgery was yesterday and he is fine. But it was a long, long day -- for me and especially for Dave.

We went to the hospital in the pre-dawn darkness, leaving home in an Uber about 7 a.m. The hospital isn't far so we were there within 10 minutes or so. This time, Dave is on the kite floor, as opposed to the fish floor, the beach floor or the butterfly floor.

We got into Elevator B and noticed a splatter of dried blood on the ground. Dave said, "That's fantastic!" I said, "This place gets a little more Soviet every time we come here." When we got off the elevator Dave mentioned the blood to a passing hospital staff member, who smiled with a bewildered why-are-you-bothering-me-about-this expression.

He was shown to a bed on a ward and the doctor came in and explained that although we'd been told to come at 7:30 a.m., his surgery wouldn't be until early afternoon (!). Dave absorbed this news with equanimity despite the fact that he wouldn't be able to eat beforehand. And then we waited, hearing various patients come and go in the curtained beds around us -- severed tendons, a suspicious growth on a kidney, a man with uncontrolled diabetes who was sent home to take his medication and come back another day. We saw none of these people -- we only heard them, each person reduced to their individual malady.

I had honestly expected Dave to go right into surgery and although I brought a book, I didn't think I'd have a chance to read it. Instead, I finished the whole thing while keeping him company, and then read the news on my phone. I got lunch and finally left around 2 p.m., because we were both worried about the dog at home by herself. (We'd cancelled her walker because she seemed to be having joint pain the night before.)

When I went down in Elevator B, the blood was still on the floor.

The doctor had promised to call me after the surgery, and I had that holiday panto to attend with my co-workers. So I got ready and went to that, thinking the doctor might call while I was on the tube or in the middle of the play. (And you don't want to get a phone call in the middle of a panto, especially an irreverent gay panto like this one, because they're likely to heckle you from the stage.)

I felt like the most irresponsible spouse in the world, going to a panto when my husband was laid up in a hospital in God knows what condition. But Dave knew I'd bought this ticket long ago and he said I should go, so I did.

As luck would have it, the doctor called during intermission (immediately after I'd attempted to phone the ward where we'd spent the morning) and said Dave was fine. I even spoke to groggy Dave who said he was in pain but otherwise OK. So I could enjoy the second half of the panto without anxiety.

I got home at midnight and fell into bed and neglected to e-mail Dave's poor parents until this morning, even though I'd promised to keep them up to date. Oops!

I'll be back to the hospital today, curious to see if anyone's cleaned up that blood in Elevator B.