...have been nuts.
Thursday night was pretty darn horrific for Patrick. He was up all night with, what he described to be, excruciating stomach spasms that wouldn't go away...very similar symptoms he felt on two separate occasions months ago. I left work early on Friday to take him to urgent care and he couldn't even walk straight he was so feverish and sick. Tests were inconclusive. But probably a bug or bad indigestion, they thought. So he spent the night and Saturday at home resting and recuperating and by Saturday night, he felt a million times better. I got him his favorite Gatorade flavors and teased him about having a low tolerance for pain. "Men are such wusses when they're sick!", I mused to a girlfriend on the phone.
I made the best of nurse duty.
By Sunday, his fever was gone and he felt pretty a-okay. So I left! I went to church, frolicked through Central Park, bought some gifts at a cute home goods store on the Upper West Side and my favorite stationery store in the West Village (Greenwich Letterpress
Heck, I even stopped for banana graham cracker ice cream at the little Cafe Cluny
ice cream stand.
Meanwhile, Patrick said he felt totally fine as he got some fresh air and walked across Manhattan to a follow-up appointment. I went home and picked out a restaurant halfway between us for dinner and waited for his text that he was leaving. I flossed, applied eyeliner, sprayed my wrists with perfume, tidied up the bathroom cabinet - you know, the usual pre-date routine. And then the phone call came that made me hop down the stairs, into a cab, and up the entry ramp of the local ER. "Appendicitis", he said with a look of pure frustration that quickly turned into a this-is-so-ridiculous contagious giggle. There we sat, starving, ready for our dinner date, and laughing at the absurdity of what was going to happen instead. We waited on a bed near the nurses' station next to a drunk, who hadn't the slightest clue where he was, before we were led to Room 7 on the 7th floor. At least we had that little luck going for us. Too bad the roommate & roommate's wife were felons with a drug problem (FYI, curtains aren't soundproof!), but that's another story in itself...
sleeping before surgery
The rest? Is honestly a blur. His parents arrived late morning on Monday right after they wheeled him away and I was so excited to see them and get a hug that I missed five separate calls from the O.R. So basically, I'm the worst emergency contact ever. The doctor finally tracked us down needing his wallet because they had his name spelled incorrectly and they had to re-do the paperwork. "Maybe you could turn the ringer up on your phone?", Patrick teased when we went up to the operating room. (He's never going to let that one down, just so you know.) I waited with him alone for an extra five minutes while the surgeons in purple scrubs flooded the room. It's those last couple moments that get me. It's the goodbye you want to say twice. Okay, three times. It's that realization of just how much you care. It's the thumbs up that says "don't worry."
I worked in the afternoon which was honestly a welcomed distraction while his amazing parents waited with him in recovery. And all went great! Aside from looking a little peaked, he was feeling pretty good. According to the doctors' graphic description of the state of his appendix, he's been walking around with this for quite some time... I suppose now is the time for me to publicly apologize for that whole low-pain-tolerance claim... (sorry!) By 7pm, I was cross-eyed with exhaustion and headed home. He was discharged yesterday and his parents got him set up at the apartment - they bought groceries, a gift card to the restaurant we planned to go to on Sunday, and cooked an entire chicken casserole before leaving town. I mentioned they're amazing, right? Goodness, I don't know what we would have done without their help.
As for the patient? He's doing great :) and his appetite is back in full swing. I told him I planned on cooking up a storm and he proceeded to shake from laughter... you know, the that-is-so-absurd giggle from earlier. If anyone wants to teach me how to cook,
the little lady Patrick would love you forever.
It's been a rough year
for the big guy, but I hope he knows how proud I am of him for pushing on through. Keep on truckin' and giving life that thumbs up, bud. And I'll do my best to learn how to make something besides spaghetti.
until next time,