Kevin is reading--plowing through the exploits of Harry, Hermione and Ron. His patience is wearing on my patience. I have this growing desire to shake his bed and shout "WHY are you so accepting and patient!" I don't really want an answer; I just want the release of a nice loud shout and a little company in my inability to wait well.
In fairness, even Kevin is growing impatient with waiting for the nether regions of his body to catch up with the rest of him. We walk every couple of hours. There's nowhere to go though and I think we're wearing a rut in the floor--exit his room sharply to the right, circle the elevator block, left back onto the floor which gives us a straight shot to a dead end hall.
We stop at the windows just beyond the elevator and imagine what's going on out in the real world. The first day or two I made up stories about the people across the street in the park and the hospital staff that lurks in the smoking lounge (think rickety wooden picnic table) just beyond the bounds of hospital property.
I'm all out of stories. We're anxious to hear the pathology results on his lymph nodes. There's a lot riding on clear nodes.
The longer we wait, the less confident we feel.
Kevin wants to sleep in his own bed. His new hardly tried out bed that so far has cost him $80/hour to sleep in. And he wants to take a walk without having to adjust an assortment of attachments. He wants something to eat. And he wants to know there's no more cancer lurking around.
I want to soak in my giant bathtub--27 inches deep, 42 inches wide, gallons of hot water and mint scented bubbles half-way up the wall. I want to sleep in a bed. Any bed. Sit in our garden and watch the hummingbirds.
And know there's no more cancer lurking around.
This place needs a garden. A sun porch. Fresh air. Windows that open.
I need some distraction. I'm going to go see if there are any Loud children hanging out. Maybe they'll let me play too.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments: