Hopefully another uneventful night. . .

Who would have thought that li'l ol' moi would take to cooking as a source of therapy? I do use that term loosely, cooking, as what I do in the kitchen in no way resembles what you see on Food Network. Not even close. My "techniques" are quite renegade, the process somewhat, um, unstructured, if you will. Nothing anyone should try at home themselves. And the four-letter words that spew forth as I chop, dice, slice, simmer, roast, boil (sometimes burn) are sprinkled as liberally as pepper in a stew . . . children under 18 are not admitted into my kitchen without an adult. That, and the incredible mess that results is quite astounding . . .

But in the dicing, slicing, roasting, simmering and whatever other "-ings" I manage to partake in, in the kitchen, fill me with a sense of purpose, a reason, a meaning, sometimes even relaxing, if I get into the groove of it. If nothing else, it's kept me busy and occupied, something to do till I'm so tired, I have to quit or I'll lose a finger . . .

Got home from the hospital tonight and decided to make salsa with some of the muthaload of tomatoes we got from our neighbor the other day. I can't believe I haven't thought to make homemade salsa before. Chopped tomatoes, bell pepper, jalapeno pepper, red onion, cilantro, fresh lime juice, a sprinkling of sea salt. Holy hanna. Love. From there, I went to a Mediterranean-ish dish—quinoa, chopped cukes, tomatoes, onion, bell pepper, black olives, olive oil vinagrette, lime juice . . . roasted a large pan of beets (just drizzled in olive oil) . . . as I painstakingly chopped, diced and sliced, I thought of Bob's orthopedic surgeon and the 8+ hours he spent hovering over Bob, delicately slicing, dicing . . . still couldn't begin to put it in perspective. . . was going to juice a "recipe" I'd seen online—a concoction of carrots, romaine lettuce and spinach that the creators swore tasted like chocolate milk. But by then, three hours later, my kitchen looked like a bomb had exploded in it, my eyes were bleary and I still needed to take out the garbage, sort through the rest of the tomatoes I didn't use, not to mention the time it would take to clean the disaster before me, without adding to the mess. . .

I was at the hospital for a few hours in the late morning/early afternoon, then slipped away to attend my niece, Amelia's, 5th birthday party for a spell. Got to see lots of family and even an old friend from high school with whom Jill has reconnected with recently . . . after about an hour and a half, I felt the pull of the hospital. Said goodbye to all and headed back to the U.

Bob was even more lucid and talkative tonight than he had been before I'd left. Unbelievable. His memory is amazing—at least for events prior to the surgery—he remembers our conversations in the hospital leading up to the surgery, he asked why he wasn't on Integrilin right now, he rattled off his meds and the dosages, with complete accuracy, to his nurse . . .His short-term memory, right now, is a little sketchy—asked several times where Nancy was, that kind of thing—but is to be expected, given the length of the surgery and the time he was "out."

He asked if I would massage/move his right foot around, as he said it felt odd. I found it under the blankets and started rubbing very gingerly. Prior to surgery, I wouldn't have been able to even touch his foot, much less massage it. He couldn't feel my hands on his foot or on his calf, and became somewhat concerned; I told him to not even go there right now, it hasn't been even 48 hours since the marathon endeavor he'd just been through, and it's going to take a long time to know exactly the extent of the surgery results. Right now, focus on the good things. That, at least when he's lying still, his pain is very manageable, that every time I come into his room, he's more and more clear-headed, stronger in his voice, that all his vitals are remarkably stable, that he has an astounding number of people praying for, thinking about, cheering him on.

He still hasn't been able to eat anything, as he has a tube through his nose, down to his stomach, to help pump out fluids, air, assist in getting things "moving again," as his nurse told me last night. After such a major event, it takes a while for the systems to "wake up" and start working again, so he may get really nauseous and throw any food or liquids up, which would be so painful and possibly interfere with the wounds. Maybe tomorrow, his nurse said. . .

At one point, his nurse had to reposition him, and he asked me to leave. "It's not pretty, Jen," he said, "I cry and scream like a baby. I don't want you to hear or see it . . ." I left his room and stood outside the drawn curtain for a few minutes. At first, I heard nothing but his nurse and her partner talking, Bob's voice punctuating the conversation now and then. That's not so bad . . . then I heard, Okay, now. On the count of three, Bob. One . . . two . . . three . . . followed by Bob's wails filling the hallway . . . I quickly made my way down the hall and out the doors of the unit, so I couldn't hear him.

Tomorrow is the start of a busy week in a hospital. Lots of teams of docs coming in and out. I'm going to try to get to the hospital early, and catch as many as I can . . . and with that, time for bed. xxooxxoo Love! to all . . .