Ending the day on a good note . . .

The day started out shitty, literally and figuratively, but ended on a good note, which is a nice way to fall asleep at the end of the day. . .

So, all the efforts put forth to help Bob's systems get moving again came to fruition last night; in essence, his bowels woke from a deep, week-long surgery-induced slumber and were ready to party, all night, into the morning and beyond. Has made for a miserable day and a half, and underscored just how much Bob is dependent on others to care for him, how very little he can yet do for himself. . . has felt nauseous and bloated for a good couple of days. Passed up PT and OT today because he feels physically, mentally spent. . .

I watch the nurses and aides change Bob's bedding, change his gown for the third time this morning, see his body, which isn't his body any more, I don't recognize it. It belongs to a frail, atrophied old-man, not Bob, who's lean, defined, muscular one I've known for over 15 years. . .even in his weakened state, he continually surprises his nurses and doctors with his strengh. I feel caught in a strange wrinkle in time. between the here and now, with the teeny, tiny baby steps forward, barely perceptible it almost feels we're going backward . . . and projecting toward the future, when Bob will be able to get about his life with little or no assistance from anyone . . .wondering which world is best to live in? The here and now is painfully stagnant; the future seems more hopeful, yet still so far away and still no promises that things will be any less difficult than they are right now. . .

There's talk that Bob will be sent to subacute therapy (transitional care) from the hospital, still not sure when—end of this week, maybe? One doc I talked to today said that seems to be the most appropriate plan, as they don't doubt that Bob will eventually work up to the more intense acute therapy, but as they're seeing, his recovery is likely, at least to start, to take a slower, more gradual path . . .

I continue to press the issue that he's not himself, that he's very lethargic, confused, gets agitated when I don't understand his nonsensical ramblings—this is just like what he was experiencing a few months ago . . . he had a CT scan done on his abdomen this afternoon—colorectal team wanted to make sure nothing was amiss, given he's been nauseous, had been running a low-grade temp . . . I went home during that time, to walk and feed the dogs, then got back to the U around 6. Still groggy, looking "off." Bob's nurse, a new one I haven't seen before, but is sooooo nice, suggested that maybe it'd do him good to get out of bed, as he hadn't done so all day. Bob at first protested, so she left us to discuss it while she went to get some evening meds. I thought a wheelchair would be great, even better than the chair, but then thought that maybe it's not allowed yet . . . Bob's nurse returned, asked if he'd decided to get up or not, then said, "Hey, would you be up for getting into a wheelchair? Now that would be great therapy for you, get out of these four walls you've been confined in, get a real change of scenery . . .I'll be right back with one!"

She returned with the wheelchair and an aide to help her get Bob's brace on, then up and out of bed, into the wheelchair. A lengthy, complicated process, but went very well. We walked up and down the hallways of the sixth floor, making sure to take a whip through 6A, where our favorite painting hangs, a gorgeous acrylic abstract mountain and wildflower landscape, saturated in deep purple, gold, green. We'd discovered it back when Bob was recovering in intermediate care after his second heart attack, and both of us had decided it was our favorite painting on the sixth floor. . .we stopped at each little sunroom tucked into the corners at the ends of hallways, watched the rain splatter the window pains and lightening flashes all around. Bob even took hold of the wheelchair's wheels at one point, and spun himself in circles, pivoting back and forth, then took off down the hallway again, leaving me trailing behind. . . during the hall walk, Bob definitely seemed more alert, interactive, engaging than what he had been back in his room. And no pain when sitting. Hasn't been using Dilauded much at all in the past few days, either.

After a half hour or so, we finally returned to his bed. I popped one of the movies my sister, Gretch, brought over, in the DVD player (I don't even remember the name—The Recruit, maybe? With Al Pacino, Colin Farrell?), tried to eat a few bites of dinner (still on a liquid diet), and then asked to be helped back to bed. Again, an involved but smooth transition. Bob nearly fell asleep the second his head sank into in his pillow. After making sure he was comfortable, had his call light at his side, his phone and water on the bedside table, I kissed him several times before leaving him for the night.