OK, Guys, it’s a political year, so expect a lot of flip-flopping. You can’t tell the players without a program, so listen up. I’m going to try to impose some order on a week of utter chaos. This ought to be good.

As you know, we took Dennis to the ER last week because of extreme pain, weakness and boredom (he has been with me without respite, break, or stunt double for a while now, and I think he was just looking for a little excitement! And there is nothing like replacing a stent to provide just the diversion he was hoping for.) They admitted him to the HCI and provided him with shelter, round-the-clock nursing care and culinary delights such as ice chips, IV fluids, and lime green jello (This is Utah after all)

Dennis’ gall bladder made a major bid for attention, however, and provided lots of excitement with fever and icky stuff. Scans showed it doing things gall bladders shouldn’t be doing, and the doctors named those things with words which were eventually reduced to initials I can’t remember, but sounded serious. Then the surgeons and radiologists began debating whether the gall bladder should be removed or if a drain should be installed. Meanwhile, the Clot decided to stand and wait…and wait…and, well, you know. The scorekeepers kept us up-dated, and we had fun wagering bets, the winner of which got to eat Dennis’ jello. (Actually, so did the loser!)

Finally, in a stunning announcement from the medical team spokesman that no one could have predicted, it was decided that since the gall bladder had settled down on its own, Dennis would be discharged into my care if I signed a legally-binding pre-op saying I would vow not to cook anything ever again as long as I lived. I signed in a heartbeat, and took the man home. Once inside our four walls, however, he began a steady decline. This is enough to give me a complex. He hadn’t even been home for 24 hours. Now in the interest of truth in blogging, I honestly didn’t even open the refrigerator door, except to extract cans of soda pop with caffeine. I do admit that the frequency of that frenetic little exercise ratcheted up my sparkling conversation to the point of nuclear explosion, but hey, he’s used to that.

However, Hthe Clot gathered, counseled, and decided he should return to the hospital.

So Sunday afternoon the Clot caravanned once more up to the Huntsman, went directly to the fourth floor, greeted all our friends and fellow patients, turned on the DVD player, and began watching the second season of Veronica Mars. It was all so homey gathering once more around the old IV tubes. It was a Norman Rockwell scene of domestic bliss. With Dennis in the hospital, I have been spending increased amounts of unstructured time at home alone. Great amounts of unstructured time at home alone has made me realize how absolutely boring I can be. And suddenly my appreciation for Dennis’ gift of patience has increased in direct proportion to my personal boredom. Gee, the guy’s a saint. But in my own defense, I do take partial credit for preparing him for his up-coming surgery. I am the major contributor to his endurance factor.

As of today (Tuesday) we have ten more sleeps and a wake up until we go to surgery. WooHoo!

It has been decided that Dennis will come home today. I have promised upon pain of stoning in the town square that his only nutrition will consist of Jevity, sips of water with ice chips and the occasional oral reading of recipes from our new ward cookbook. And utter boredom to enhance his sleep.

More updates to come. Breaking news airs immediately.

Love,

The Clot