Five days after

There is too much to do and not enough time to get it all in--but I have to.

I'm tired. Exhausted. Frank had his surgery last Wednesday and I've been extra busy ever since. The level of care that hospitals expect family member to take on still leaves me aghast. It starts in the waiting area. The room is huge--about 1,000 square feet of beautiful bamboo hardwood floors, hard chairs, and magazines far past their prime. I actually picked up a copy of Better Homes & Gardens that was from 2004.

Frank got checked in and we waited for his name to be called. We went over the final paper work. We chatted. I was a little hungry, having not eaten enough at breakfast. I didn't realize that once Frank was checked in, I would be under strict orders not to leave the room.

As we sat there, Frank handed me his wallet. "You can't wear your wedding ring, you know," I said. Frank looked offended. "Why not? They aren't operating on my hand."

I explained that it was so the patient couldn't claim something had been stolen while he or she was under anesthesia. Frank slid the gold band off his finger and into the palm of my hand. I put it on my left middle finger, but it was so big, there was no way it would stay on. Frank chuckled as I tried every finger and each thumb with the same result.

Frank's name was called and he gave me a kiss as he stood up to leave with the nurse. I looked at the wedding ring, feeling a bit guilty for the number of times I had rolled my eyes when Frank told me he had gut pain. I kept insisting it was just gas, but it turned out it was something. Several somethings.

I turned the ring around on my right thumb, looking at how the once-shiny gold had muted to a matte finish. The five Celtic swirls engraved into the ring were holding up well, though. Frank never wore a piece of jewelry until our wedding day. At the time, I was sure he wouldn't wear a wedding ring, but he was happy to do it. Now it bothered him to have to take it off.

An hour passed. I pulled out my laptop and checked work and personal email. Nothing but people wanting something and annoying me in the process. I shouldn't have checked. Things that never bothered me before have been making me bristle with impatience lately.

Another hour. After two-and-a-half hours, there were only three of us left waiting. The room had at least twenty people in it when we had first arrived, but they had all trickled out as their loved ones' surgeries were completed.

I was beginning to worry.

When almost four hours had passed, I was finally called to come back to the recovery area.

Frank was sitting in a recliner, wrapped in a blanket. He was pale and sleepy. The nurse smiled and said, "He did great!" He didn't look so great.

We waited another 45 minutes and were cleared to go. Frank stood up and then sat down. He was wobbly on his feet and dizzy. The nurse got a wheelchair and we set off toward the parking lot. Frank got in the car slowly, buckled his seatbelt, and asked for his wedding band.

When we got home, Frank headed straight for the couch. He was asleep within minutes. I took the time to review his post-surgical instructions. So much to monitor. So much to remember.

Frank didn't move much for 24 hours. He was well-dosed with Percocet and the residual anesthesia that hadn't yet cleared his system. The cat joined him on the couch and they stayed there, each a comfort to the other.

I stayed home from work on Thursday, too. It was a long day, but Frank was able to stay awake for hours at a time. His color was better. He was a little hungry. He was in pain.

His recovery is slow, but he's doing much better. He's still not back to work--maybe another day will do it. He said I'm an excellent nurse.

While Frank was in surgery and in the first day of recovery, I was scared. I kept thinking that anything could go wrong. What if it turned out to be cancer? What if he had some freaky bleeding issue? What if, what if, what if?

No what-ifs came to pass. Recovery is on schedule with no surprises. Exhale, May. You can exhale.