“Dad,” she asks slurring so it comes out “Da.”
"Hey," I smile through sleepy eyes, grabbing her towards me.
“I was afraid you would never come home from the hospital,” our four year old explains.
Snuggling beside me on the sofa I've spent the night on, we cuddle and I hold her tight.
"What day is it?" I ask myself.
"I dunno," she says, focusing her attention on a video.
A pandemic makes it difficult to know but adding my cancer diagnoses, "slime" drained from my body, a stint placed inside, a radical Whipple surgery, followed by repair of "incision Hernia" resulting in the sad conclusion I still have cancer so who cares what day it is?!
On the sofa I recover from surgery after never being actually admitted to the Hospital!
Everything started normally enough but what's really normal anymore?
Checking into Day Surgery, Sarah's now a seasoned professional navigating the treacherous waters of American Health Care, joking with Nurses before taking us to seats to wait.
Neither of us want this.
Just half way through recovery from a ten hour Whipple operation, here we go again.
After a few hour delay because I prefer a shot of cream in my coffee, I'm wheeled away for another three hours under the knife, waking to see my beautiful wife sitting staring lovingly at me.
"Still here!" I comprehend.
It wasn't as smooth a recovery as I remember because according to Sarah I wake screaming "I HAVE TO PEE!"
I don't because the catheter they've inserted is working fine.
"Hey Babes," I ask in my version of waking, my smoking hot concerned wife's seated beside my recovery bed, "Did they get it all?"
Sarah rolls her eyes like I'm an idiot, tell me she loves me, makes certain I'm alright, sits with me for an hour before leaving at 9:45 pm, and goes home to the girls.
At some point, my surgeon's residents breeze through, rip out the catheter and tell me I'll be admitted for my 2-4 day hospital stay soon.
The next morning at 9am Sarah arrives and, along with Rose, the receptionist, is perplexed why I'm still in the same Post Anesthesia Care Unit.
An hour later, Rose leads Sarah back to the same spot she's left 12 hours earlier.
We sit, holding hands and talk for an hour.
Things get busy in the PACU area as lots of people are being wheeled in to wake up from their surgery.
My nurse tells my wife she will have to leave.
"When can I see him again?"
She is not given a specific answer.
"When will he be moved to his hospital room?"
"We don't have any open rooms," my wife is told.
"That's not true. As I was waiting to come back here someone else was moving from here to room 355."
The nurse immediately sits at her computer and looks up the room, giving Sarah no response.
My wife continues ... "I will go, but you need to tell me what you are monitoring here. His BP is fine, his overnight blood work is all within normal range besides his glucose which was a little high, but that is typical after surgery, he is able to pee on his own, he wants to sit up, but you won't even let him hang his feet over the side of the bed, he has physical therapy scheduled for this morning which hasn't happened because you can't do that in the PACU area, his compression socks are not even on to help prevent blood clots ... you are delaying his recovery! When will he get a room?"
Every patient, in every recovery bed, regardless of the severity of their condition, raises his or her head to watch my smoking hot wife, who knows how to command a room.
Other than the beeps, gurgles and buzzing of machines, it gets very quiet.
"We're looking for a bed," the Nurse meekly replies, but hospital rooms flash "occupied" as soon as they're vacated on her screen.
"All Night?" Sarah continues. "I think it's time we call his surgeon. I have his personal cellphone number."
"You can't call the surgeon, he might be in surgery. You have to leave," the Nurse says.
"He's not," my wife replies, who happens to have a quite endearing relationship with our surgeon, "He only operates on Tuesdays and Fridays."
My wife is escorted by three staff to the door.
Hitting his name on my phone, I call the surgeon from my bed.
My horrified Nurse flees to a Supervisor's desk.
I explain the situation to my Receptionist who promises to convey the information to the Surgeon
"Surgeons don't make rounds down here," my Nurse later explains as my Surgeon leads two residents into the PACU area.
"You ready to go home?" he asks.
"Hey yeah before that," I ask, "can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?"
"Is it legal in Georgia? Find out!" he orders the horrified Residents. "Now let's get my favorite patients out of here."
He leaves signing papers and grinning.
"Nobody's ever done this before," my Nurse murmurs, returning to the Supervisor's Desk.
In no time at all, she's wheeling me back to Day Services where another Nurse, pats me on the shoulder orders to dress, call my wife and give her a minute.
I do so and she returns with papers for me to sign, then wheels me down a lonely hallway through a nondescript door to the getaway car my wife's driving.
"What just happened?" she asks speeding away from the Hospital.
"I dunno," I reply just happy to be with Sarah driving home, still high on morphine.
"We are going to keep you as high as kite the next few days," Sarah smiles squeezing my hand.
Unbeknownst to me, she has my PCP and a nurse friend on standby should a problem occur at home.
Laying on the sofa, snuggled with Che, watching cartoons, I'm firmly convinced recovery occurs best at home and I know for certain Sarah agrees.
