Mr. Bob almost seems perfectly well, except for needing oxygen. A team of five doctors has been put together and it's been determined that it's a stage 3 case with which they're dealing. The implantation of a port was scheduled for tonight, but the doses of Vitamin K he'd been given to counteract the Coumadin he takes had not quite gotten his blood to coagulate as quickly as was wanted, so the procedure was rescheduled for tomorrow morning at 7.
|In the middle, the friend who volunteers|
at the hospital and who was responsible
for bringing the doctor to meet me.
without their concern, I'd not have had the presence of mind to insist on those services. I
think it's a generational thing (except that the family next door was constantly making demands with results).
We've laughed, we've wept and we've exchanged more hugs than we've shared in forever.
What a strange and wondrous thing that a situation such as the one we're going through, brings out those precious times.
Poor precious; I've noticed more than once Mr. Bob's hospital issued socks get turned around so that the portion which makes them non-slip has worked its way around to the top of his feet. It's love that makes us adjust them so that we won't lose him to a fall.
At noon dinnertime, when Susan and I came home for a break, so many people asked about Mr. Bob's condition that I finally shortened my answer to "He went into the hospital two weeks ago with congestive heart failure and he'll be back home tomorrow with lung cancer." Blunt, but concise. And as Edith Ann used to say, "And that's the truth".
|“One's family is the most important thing in life. I look at it this way: One of these days I'll be over in a hospital somewhere with four walls around me. And the only people who'll be with me will be my family.”|