I call the Critical Care Unit at agreed time. He’s in recovery, ‘a bit uncomfortable so they’re giving him pain relief’ (I know what that means – poor husband). The good news is that he doesn’t need to spend two days in Critical Care as expected.
More waiting. I’m getting a little better at it but it’s not my favourite thing. I call the ward to be told that he’s just arrived and I can go and see him. He’s still here but good grief he’s fragile. Husband is a tall strapping trap with the physique of a rugby player but here he looks literally a shadow of his former self. He’s in so much discomfort that he can’t speak properly and I can’t even stroke his forehead because it’s uncomfortable. He can manage to hold my hand a little.
But he’s still here. This is good. My job now is to locate his lost bag (why do hospitals always lose the little bags of patient belongings? I offered to keep it with me), to do what little I can to help him to feel better (largely sit in silence holding his hand) and take notes to update the family. He finds tap water makes him feel sick so I can at least deliver lots of small bottles of spring water.
Husband is exhausted but the staff say he’s doing well. I have to leave so it’s time to send assorted text messages to let everyone know the latest. I am looking forward to getting to bed.