It is shortly after 6:30am as I write this. The view outside the window is of the city, not the the ridge and the often-glorious sunrise I usually greet the day with. Instead I see the lights of a city waking up and two cranes in the construction area next to the hospital. I’ve been here for a few days undergoing surgery and recovering. I’m hoping for the thumbs up from my doctor to go home today.
The hospital is not a place of quiet and rest. It’s a place of procedures and healing, of noise and activity. It’s a place that has me longing for the comfort of my home where there’s good coffee, a comfortable bed, decent food, and a Yorkie and a husband.
The hospital runs on its own time, and that time is in conflict with my natural rhythm. Here I adapt, which isn’t really a bad thing, but a thing that requires a measure of something I’m in short supply of. Maybe it was removed as during the surgery.
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Woo hoo! The resident was just in and she’s writing the discharge order as we speak. There’s truly no place like home. It’s going to be a good home going day and it’ll probably involve Starbucks and pumpkins ice cream.
I’m behind in my reading and writing and living. It’s time to get back on track—or at least move a little farther ahead while real self care continues in the comfort of home. Home. What a sweet, sweet word.