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Well, damn.
Michael called me this morning and said that his father was having some final tests preparatory to being moved to a regular room. If all continued to go well, then maybe Michael would come home tomorrow. He asked me to look into flights.
This afternoon, he called again. The surgeon had been by. Apparently, one of the problems that led to one of the emergency surgeries was that a piece of Michael's father's bowel was caught up in a hernia. They thought that was what was causing an intestinal blockage. But they fixed the hernia, and the blockage is still there.
They're going to try physical therapy, in hopes that things will become unblocked if Michael's father gets up and moves around. Apparently sometimes that happens. The surgeon is willing to give that 24 to 48 hours to work. If it doesn't? Major abdominal surgery, opening the whole belly.
I know from my research assistant's experience that trying to unblock the intestines is often a multistep, multisurgery problem. Because things that have been operated on tend to adhere together, and adhesions can re-block what was just opened up.
So Michael won't be coming home tomorrow unless a miracle occurs. The best-case scenario is that he'll stay another couple of days until the physical therapy can be proven to have worked. Alternatively...
...let's just focus on the best-case scenario for now.
You know, Michael and I have been married for nine years, together for eleven. And lately I've thought of our relationship as... very comfortable, and kind of mundane. Domestic, loving, friendly. But now it occurs to me: fish probably describe water as comfortable, mundane, domestic, and friendly, too. And the absolute essentiality of it probably isn't evident until it's gone.
I miss Michael so much. I'm coping fine with what needs to be done, but I feel like something's been amputated. And he sounds so tired and stretched on the phone. We need each other.
This afternoon, he called again. The surgeon had been by. Apparently, one of the problems that led to one of the emergency surgeries was that a piece of Michael's father's bowel was caught up in a hernia. They thought that was what was causing an intestinal blockage. But they fixed the hernia, and the blockage is still there.
They're going to try physical therapy, in hopes that things will become unblocked if Michael's father gets up and moves around. Apparently sometimes that happens. The surgeon is willing to give that 24 to 48 hours to work. If it doesn't? Major abdominal surgery, opening the whole belly.
I know from my research assistant's experience that trying to unblock the intestines is often a multistep, multisurgery problem. Because things that have been operated on tend to adhere together, and adhesions can re-block what was just opened up.
So Michael won't be coming home tomorrow unless a miracle occurs. The best-case scenario is that he'll stay another couple of days until the physical therapy can be proven to have worked. Alternatively...
...let's just focus on the best-case scenario for now.
You know, Michael and I have been married for nine years, together for eleven. And lately I've thought of our relationship as... very comfortable, and kind of mundane. Domestic, loving, friendly. But now it occurs to me: fish probably describe water as comfortable, mundane, domestic, and friendly, too. And the absolute essentiality of it probably isn't evident until it's gone.
I miss Michael so much. I'm coping fine with what needs to be done, but I feel like something's been amputated. And he sounds so tired and stretched on the phone. We need each other.