While I talked to a stranger in the hall, the doctor came in. It couldn't have been more than five or ten minutes. We had already waited a couple of hours as he dozed in the hospital bed waiting for the procedure he had hoped would help with the misery of pain and embarrassment. Many men suffer from prostate problems and we were hopeful this would be the answer to prayers for a chance at normalcy in his daily life and maybe we could take a little road trip to visit the kids. Other procedures and drugs had not helped.
.
When I looked down the hall and saw the entourage rolling his bed out, I hurried back down the hall and gave him a quick peck on the cheek and said, "I love you. See you later." He smiled, said "love you too," and was whisked away into the operating room.
The following 36 hours were the hardest of my life. In disbelief, I was told he was intubated and would be going to ICU where, hopefully, he would be taken off the intubation tomorrow. Precautionary measure. My mind whirled. The doctor is trying to explain what happened and kept repeating, "does that make sense?" "No, it doesn't make sense!" He offered to call my children to explain so I didn't have to, and they could hear it from him. Complications. Obscene visions plague my mind, but nothing to prepare me for the scene or outcome.
60 years of marriage, plus another 10 or so, for our childhood crushes, have been annihilated by something horribly wrong. The hours and days that follow are a blur of activity totally new to me. So many details and so many decisions that must be made. Friends called, family came, Facebook messages written, food brought. I operate on auto pilot. Always the strong one. The one who has always been in charge when duty called, or in a crisis, now is wandering around like a lost child in the night. Wanting to comfort my children, and at the same time, wanting to be comforted, I stoically walked from room to room, thanked people, and tried to be hospitable to a house full of family and friends.
Every now and then, I think this is just a bad dream. I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow and find him out in the sunroom in his chair where he played his computer games, watched squirrels, an occasional fox, and birds, or on the patio chatting and laughing with the neighbors.
All through the years, he traveled sometimes two weeks at a time, or left for work long before I got up and came home many times after I had gone to bed, but I always knew it was temporary. This time, he won't be coming home. I miss him.
