Ian is coming home tomorrow!!
Yippee.
Ok, don't take that the wrong way. I miss him, I miss having him at home and not in an hospital bed an hour away. Of course it's better for the patient to be at home, in familiar surroundings, surrounded by family and hopefully fewer sick people!
And yet, there is something very ominous about my return to the role of caregiver.
When he's in the hospital, he's not on my watch. He's being carefully monitored and scanned and medicated.
When he's home ... it's all me.
We start with the mid-night or super-early morning bathroom trip:
'Is he okay?' 'Is he staggering more than normal?'
"Are you okay, hon?"
"Mmmhmm."
"Okay."
Sometimes I fall back to sleep, sometimes I just try desperately to shun reality by putzing with my phone to fill the thought-wrought hours of the early morning. Then the sun comes up and the day begins in earnest.
Is he okay? Is that new? Should I help him with that? When did he eat last? What meds did he just take? Is he staggering? slurring? feverish? nauseous? dehydrated? Can he get his own breakfast this morning or do I need to make it for him? Can I trust him on the stairs? How's the incision site?
All this before I'm vertical.
It's stressful.
When you give birth, you go from doctors and nurses on duty, to guided care to, "Off you go with your newborn! Godspeed!" POW: go do this parenting thing on your own.
This is kinda like that.
Sure, I've managed to keep my kids alive ... but last week Ian had a brain infection.
Apples and Orangutans.
