Friday night, every thing's alright!

*Note: the quilt that Bob is snuggling under in this photo was a very kind and generous gift from the Freemason volunteers at the hospital. . . (I keep calling them the Freebasers. I know, sick and wrong, about a group that does such good work. It was just that when the adorable silver-haired lady came into Bob's room and offered a quilt to him, I had to ask her again what organization she was with, because I truly heard "freebasers" when she introduced herself. . . )

Tonight is Friday. Bob and I thought we'd do a joint blog entry, of a stream-of-conscious kind of experiment. I type as he shares thoughts, songs, comments . . . I'm typing away on his baby HP laptop, he's eating his dinner, and basking in the glory that comes with not havin a rommate. Poor guy, that Fuzzy. Dude's a mess and didn't even care. Guess he had a stone in his pancreas that was 12 milimeters in diameter, but the opening it needed to pass through was only 4 mm. Also had emphysema, COPD, not sure if he had cancer or not. My guess is yes, being he was on the oncology floor. But, Fuzzy didn't care about any of that. Just wanted to get the hell out of the hospital, head down to the local watering hole back in Chippewa Falls where his friends were, and not ever come back. (So much for patient confidentiality in these rooms, huh?) Fuzzy was released this afternoon and is probably face-down under his barstool by now. I get by with a little help from my friends . . . however it works, I guess . . .

Bob's dinner has just been delivered, beef barley soup, buttered noodles, grapes. And a Dr. Pepper. "Let's see . . . what kind of wine would go well with salty beef barley soup and buttered noodles?" he wonders aloud. After a moment, he decides that beer would be better, maybe a dark brown lager, a doppelbock, a soft, carmel-y beer. That would be for the soup, he tells me. For the noodles, he says, a soft viognier would pair nicely. I'm sure Surdyk's can't wait to have him back to work.

Friday night and I need a fight

My motorcycle and a switchblade knife

Handful of grease and my hair feels right

what i need to make me tight are those

girls, girls, girls. . .

Bob sings a classic Motley Crue tune as he eats (sorry, don't know how to make the little umlaut-y thing over the "o" and the "u" with Bob's little baby laptop). He stops for a moment at the line, and my hair feels right, runs a hand through his very thin hair and says, "Well mine doesn't," and continues the song. His nurse comes in and asks how things are going. "C'mon in—we're havin' a party!" he tells her. She laughs as she looks at his dinner tray. "Grapes and noodles, huh? Some party animal you are, Bob!" She announces that she's done with her 12 hour shift but will be back at 7 a.m tomorow. Her replacement nurse for the rest of the night is the cute li'l rocker chick who was Bob's nurse a few weeks ago. I know she'd rock out to the Crue with Bob. Bob and his nurse exchange a few more smart-ass comments with each other before saying goodnight. I just have to mention, once again, what phenomenal care Bob has received here at the U. The staff in the oncology department, the people at the Masonic Center, everyone up here on 7-D are sofa king awesome at what they do, and have done so much so far to make Bob comfortable and feel confident that they have his (and all the patients') best interest at heart. It kinda makes me sad that Fuzzy couldn't see that.

Dr. S has been the doctor on staff on 7D this week. When he made his rounds this morning, he told Bob they were looking at Monday as his discharge day. Bob pleaded to make it Sunday, so he'd have a little more time at home before turning right around back again next Wednesday. All depended on the numbers, Doc S said, if the toxins were flushed from Bob's body.

We talk about Bob having visitors over the weekend. He's hesitant to have anyone up, for fear he just won't be up for it, but also has felt better today than he has in a long time. He said he only took a short nap or two the entire time his parents were here, from 10-ish to around 5. He feels rested, in good spirits and hopes the good waves continue on into the weekend. If it does, he'll be up for visitors, he thinks. I tell him I think it'll do him a world of good, see some friends, have some contact with the world outside hospitals, doctors, his parents and me. "But just doing this makes me happy," he says. "I like just spending time with you, like we are now. I'm having fun tonight with you here." I'm touched, but troubled. The man need some serious outside contact before this whole experience turns him into a Howard Hughes-esque recluse.

As Bob continues to eat and talk, his voice gets quiet, a little shaky. I look up from the laptop as he removes his glasses, wipes his eyes. "I hope at some point, something good comes of all of this," he says quietly. I realize he's crying. I set the laptop down and go over to him. He hugs me tightly, tells me my hair smells so good. I tell him I wish we could just lie down in his bed, take a short nap together, but I know it's just not possible. Not with all the lines running from his arm, not with his bad leg. I'll have to take this, this tight, standing hug. We stand like that, in front of his window that looks out onto the Mississippi, for what seems like a long time. He finally takes a deep breath and says, "Okay, I'm done. I just need to have those moments, just get 'em out of my system now and then. Then I feel better." Simple as it seems, I know he means it.

I stay a while longer, typing away. Bob finishes most of his dinner, gets a shower in, clean bedding on his bed and finally lies down to rest. We talk a bit more. He's getting more and more sleepy, and eventually, he falls asleep. I realize it's quarter to eight and valet parking is over at eight. I'll have to finish the blog at home. I stand up and start gathering my things. Bob pulls himself out of his little nap long enough to give me another hug and several kisses goodbye. I'm glad Penny and Jim are staying with us another night, because I hate going back to the house without him. Even the dogs know there's someone missing.