My husband had hernia surgery on Monday. It was a long wait as I was forgotten by the staff and had to call back to the recovery room to see if he was okay. I spent most of the time eating, watching HGTV, and scouring the Facebook feeds.
He’s been laughing and groaning as the abdominal muscles that were cut make their presence known. He’s been sleeping on his back, not a normal position for him. Bending and twisting are limited for the moment.
I’ve been doing the driving, cooking, and caretaking. It’s unusual with the roles being reversed. He finds it weird that I have to tell him to sit down and rest for the umpteenth time. He has to lie down and sleep when the pain killer kicks him down.
Mostly it’s me who goes to the hospital or the doctor for something healable or manageable. My moods have been lurching from one side to the other, the pendulum of bipolar swings wider until it settles down to a mere rocking side to side. I can’t afford the depression; my wariness now keeps tabs on various stages and players.
He’s getting better, slowly. It should be about three weeks before the Steri-Strips fall off and the wound heals. I keep my vigilance. Like a solder at the gate I watch and wait.