Day 8 and the end of Chris's hospital stay looks to be drawing near. Thank goodness. His triglyceride count came down from 6,000 on the first day to 500 this morning -- as the doctor said, he's their Golden Boy success story of the week. While 500 is still high, it's much more manageable, and with time and diet and exercise and many pills, hopefully he can keep his levels in the normal range (@150). And Chris just called with palpable joy in his voice: He'll be eating solid food for dinner tonight -- real food for the first time in 8 days! -- and if his angry pancreas tolerates it, he'll be coming home as early as tomorrow.
So I should be really happy. But I'm feeling anxious. Even though I've gotten my head about the super-special diet, the news about the number of pills he'll have to take (forever) nearly sent me into a full-on panic attack this morning. And once he's home, it's all on me -- no nurses to administer pain meds, no doctors to test blood counts, no helpful little techs to bring him a cup of water or remake the bed in the morning. I'll surely have to be the one to pick up all the medications and supplements he needs (and I may have to get a second job to pay for them all!), and for a while I'll have to wait on him hand and foot. Oh, and I'll have to keep the bruiser of a three-year-old occupied enough that he doesn't touch his daddy the wrong way, because Chris is still experiencing some belly discomfort. And who do you snap at when you're ill, tired, and uncomfortable? The one you love. Which means I'll surely be taking my fare share of grouching.
I'm so selfish. This is not about me. But dammit, I could use a break. And Chris hasn't yet this week even asked me how I'm doing. I was finally able to hug him this morning -- he's been so hooked up and in enough pain that I could only hold his hand until now -- and I teared up because it was so wonderful just to be in his arms; he looked at me like I had two heads, like he couldn't possibly fathom why I was emotional. Is it possible that he doesn't have a clue about how scared I've been this week? As if maybe because the pancreatitis doesn't seem to be as bad this time, there's nothing to worry about? Maybe it all just hasn't quiet sunken in...perhaps morphine dulls your brain enough that you only have a small idea of what's happening.
Anyway, he's coming home. Soon. I'm happy about this, truly. But those doctor's words of "Your husband should be dead" just keep playing over and over in my mind. We're too young for this, I keep thinking. Not part of the plan. Maybe in a few weeks, though, once I see that he's back to normal and not going to just keel over, the impact of those words will fade a bit -- just enough to lose their sting, yet not enough to convince me it's ok to eat a bucket of wings or a cheesesteak.