Remember that thing I wrote in my last entry about how the Palinode was being admitted to the hospital for surgery this afternoon? Well, as it turns out, not so much.
His doctor has a huge issue with straightforward communication, as in he does not do either: he is not straightforward, and he does not communicate well. He does communicate by saying things like Press against my hand with you big toe and Do you wet the bed?, but then he mumbles something along the lines of admitting and possibly several days and walks out of the room without any real details or instructions. I would have called him back to clarify what we were doing in that ER room, whether or not he was coming back, and what the next steps would be if the surgery was not happening tonight, but I was too busy puzzling through all the missing details and half sentences to notice that he was already gone.
He is a lovely man, I am sure.
With the help of staff in both General and Emergency Admitting and several nurses in both the Emergency and Neurology wards over three-and-a-half hours, none of whom had been informed by the doctor about why we there or that we were evening coming, the Palinode was finally admitted and given a fully adjustable electric bed, 60 mg of codeine, and a set of blue hospital jammies with which he became increasingly narcotically enamoured. By the time Deron and I left the hospital, the Palinode was doing an excellent bit about Saruman using professional wrestling moves to fight Gandolph.
The Palinode + lots of codeine + backless hospital jammies = Why did I not marry this man sooner than I did?
When a nurse asked the Palinode how his sphinctal tone was, my brain leapt in with this silent answer: It's a mighty, manly sphincter, ma'am. Do you know what's funnier than that? Okay, a lot of things might be funnier than that, depending on your comic predilections, but what I think is funnier than that is the noises we made after the nurse left to approximate how we thought a robust sphincter would sound if it were to make its own sounds. The hospital's ER brought out our most mature best.
Oh, except for those other times that it didn't. The Palinode said that the occasional alarms that went off to signify trauma somewhere were like tinkling spoons at a wedding in this context. Each time we heard beeping, he would lean in for a kiss. Thankfully, he was carted away from the ER just as a Code Blue was called over the intercom. I do not think our little room was nearly private enough for that kind of business.
Shortly before his kissing scheme, though, he was insisting to me that he should be taken care of quickly, because he was wanted at a crunk-off, and he had to be there, as his reputation was at stake. I assume that he was a little high from all the pain he was in, so I really do not think he can be held responsible for finding the ER to be such a makeout-worthy location.
To sum all of this nonsense up, 1) the Palinode's surgery is not happening tonight and has no scheduled date, but 2) his surgery will likely happen within the next few days as soon as there is an opening, and 3) I am jealous of all the drugs he gets to consume both legally and for free with all the fun of an adjustable bed at his disposal.
I wish that he was here at home with me tonight. I already miss him.