The Blog of mamapolo

My husband arrived at the rehab at about 5:45 this evening, and I cannot begin to describe to you the feeling of triumph.

This was the first day I had not been to Pittsburgh in 30 days - arranging things here - for the sitters to be there when I cannot - taking my car for estimates on the deer damage - ordering flowers for my daughter's birthday and for Tim's arrival at the rehab center - attempting to tidy up this mess I call home - paying bills. It would be great if the rest of life stopped when illness begins, but it doesn't.

I called and asked the nurse at the nurse's station to call me when he arrived, but then I couldn't wait, and hurried over to the convent-run rehab center. The grounds are stately and beautiful, even in this chilly November, and the drive sweeps through majestic oaks and pretty monuments, picked out by the car's headlights. I felt a sense of anticipation and joy I have not felt for many years. A sense of accomplishment.

When I arrived at the building at the top of the high hill overlooking our small city, lights glowing from every window, an ambulance crew was loading an empty gurney back into the vehicle. I said, "Was that the guy from Shadyside?" They said yes, and I pumped my fist in the air. "Yes!"

I was a little surprised by their reaction - they were happy to celebrate with me. I suppose ambulance crews weary of negative trips. "How long has he been in the hospital?" they asked. When I said, "29 days," they grinned.

"And now he's out!" Yes. And now he's out.

I hurried in through the beautiful lobby, lush with plants and ceramic tile, and signed in on the guest sign-in sheet. Given the number of residents at the nursing home/rehab, there was a sad dearth of visitors listed on the log. A few old ladies were seated in the television area and smiled eagerly at me. I smiled back, and told them I was sure we'd be meeting again, and went down the hall to my husband's room.

The curtain was pulled around his bed as the staff got him settled, and it was reminiscent of a local theater group production, with secret activity behind the stage curtain. At last they drew the curtain back, and he looked at me and smiled with a sweet welcome. He is not by nature a sweet-smiling man - he is a guy's guy and not given to endearments or mushiness.  "We made it," he said, and it was all I could do to not burst into tears. I am tired and it has been a long haul. "What's my name?" I asked, and he told me.

He ate some of a second supper - vegetable soup, crackers, part of a croissant, sherbet. It was not a diabetic meal, but his weight has dropped to 107 from the 129 we had achieved before this hospitalization. There is always insulin, and he needs to regain his strength and mass. There is chemotherapy ahead, although not, I think, for some weeks.

Finally, exhausted from the excitement of the trip and his progress, he drooped into his pillows and closed his eyes. I couldn't stop touching him, caressing his poor radiation-bald head, his thin arm, his face. He struggled to open his eyes and winked at me.

I said, "Are you happy to be out of the hospital?"

He reached to draw my hand between both of his in what is becoming a characteristic gesture. "I am content," he said. "Kiss me."

I did, and he fell asleep.

Do not miss those moments you have with your beloved. There may come a day when you need to draw on those memories.

Mama