Yesterday I was discharged from the hospital around 1pm.
Finally, according to my surgeon, my health was stable, I was mobile, eating, pee-ing, and just waiting. He said (and think Barack Obama‘s voice),
“At this point, you’re gonna do better at home… You see, we’re in a hospital where there are lots of people coming in and out all day long. Each person that comes in, raises the risk of infection. At home, you will be more comfortable, you’ll get more rest. Just get on home.”
Did you hear it? Obama’s voice? I did!
Matt took a few detours for groceries and medications on the way home, then he excitedly got to work on chicken soup in the pressure cooker. Remembering a prior conversation about what I really need and want, he made this soup extra brothy for me, and chunky for him, and we could dial our own chicken soup consistency to perfection. And it was soooo gooood! We can’t find that soup anywhere but The End of the Road Café (us).
I overdid it unpacking and helping clean things, but we exhaustedly sat and watched a movie before succumbing to the night. Oh, yes, and then I had a physical, emotional breakdown. Very unpleasant. It actually started in the hospital the day before. Crying, lots of crying, frustration that things weren’t going my way, fear that I wasn’t recovering properly. At home, it just boiled over, and I was overwhelmed with tears for a few hours, for no reason. That must be the pain pills.
Over night I slept like a rock until 3am. I woke and felt like a spayed cat, unable to move but laboriously, and I felt every inch of that incision. I got up and took 3 Ibuprofen to take the edge off, and fell asleep. At 5:30am I told Matt to get me a couple of the prescription pain pills. By the pain scale, I was 8 or 9. Fortunately, that’s all it took and I was asleep again. That is pain you don’t want to meet face to face. It steals your soul.