This is a week to present rambling thoughts from the dining-room office.
On Jan. 8. I walked into the hospital for a day surgery event. Ten days later I was claimed by my nephew and delivered to Housemate who was waiting indoors for me to slowly make my way onto and up the stairs leading into our house. Thus began a eight-week recovery period listed on my medical sheets.
The first thing I did was find a comfortable spot on the bed and promptly fell asleep — the first sleep in many days that wasn’t interrupted by a nurse checking my vital signs or a laboratory professional wanting to find a vein that would supply enough blood for whatever testing was being done.
But I didn’t mind that my sleep was disturbed. It meant a team with an amazing set of skills and knowledge was looking after me, watching for signs of possible problems and taking swift action to ensure there were no problems on their watch.
Several of my visitors were astonished to witness such youthful women and men in these positions of care and authority. One visitor was bold enough to ask the age of two of my nurses and learned they were just barely in their mid-20s.
Their care was superb, over long hours and with other stressors showing up on their shifts. They answered my snoopy questions about the pills being served. When it became apparent I couldn’t swallow one of the pills, they pulverized it into near powder, mixed it with some fruit-flavoured Boost and watched while I gagged the mixture down. I do know that if left intact, those pills might just have been concealed in my gown’s deep pockets before sending the gown into the hospital laundry basket. The nurses knew, somehow, not to trust me with my large medications. Maybe they took a course on how to weed out such miscreants.
My best meal in the hospital was the minced beef with gravy and mashed potatoes, ending with an orange sorbet, and grape juice. To my dismay, I was allowed to taste soy milk and gluten-free toast. Both went untouched after only a small sample. I still feel guilty about wasting food but I know what I like and the test was a failure.
Here at home, Housemate has made soups and stews and casseroles from scratch. Plus he’s gone to the grocery store and come home with ready-made meals in an attempt to tempt me to eat more than a few bites. And although it takes me a long time, I’ve managed to put together some simple meals that may or may not have met my past standards. Neither of us has been poisoned so far, so that’s a plus.
There has been one benefit to having my surgery when I did. My recovery has come during the coldest part of the winter and I have been happy to stay indoors where it is warm while others trudge outdoors, warm up their vehicles and head off to whatever task awaits. I’ve concluded that I wasted money by having winter tires installed back in mid-November and wonder if there might be some kind of refund for not having driven a specified number of kilometres.
But my trusty vehicle is a warrior. I convinced Housemate I could at least start the engine and sit inside listening to Sirius radio on the Willie Nelson channel. The vehicle did not let me down and I had no trouble getting up and behind the wheel. Next time I will motor up and down the driveway and hope to heck no one is blocking my exit point should I decide to venture out onto the street.
Housemate has been a reliable chauffeur but I suspect he is hoping that someday soon I will release him from his position as a volunteer driver. I’ve enjoyed my travels with him, sitting there behind him in the back seat, suggesting gently where to go and how to get there.
Indeed it is perfect back seat driving from the back seat.
Joyce Walter can be reached at [email protected]
