I'm tired. Really, really tired.
Hospitals absolutely suck my will to live. Which, you know, when you think about it, is pretty ironic.
You can just smell the hopelessness there. It hangs in the air like a living entity, enveloping the patients and staff, making it hard to breathe.
Or maybe that was just what they use to clean the floors.
But I'm pretty sure it was the hopelessness.
Anyway, private hospital or not, the cleanliness was not antiseptic. It was actually more like how I keep my house, which honestly, let me tell you that some weeks is with a lick and a promise. Seriously, I am thankful Nolan is home, that he's somewhat mobile, and that he's on the mend. I can tell he's getting better because the orneriness is at an all time high. He WON'T take his pain medication. ('I'm a MAAAAAAN!') And he got a little shirty about taking his muscle relaxers. But I strongarmed him into it. He may outweigh me by 70 pounds, and be over a foot taller, but when I put my foot down, my size seven wide makes an IMPRINT, y'all.
I'm grateful that I don't have real problems. I'm grateful for my family's continued good health. I'm so, so, so, so grateful that I can wash off that "hospital smell" and I don't have to go up there again for it to seep into my pores again. I'm grateful for the nursing staff, who did their best, even though they were understaffed. I'm grateful for the doctor, who put twenty-two staples in my husband's back, and who relieved him of his chronic pain. I'm grateful to God, who saw my husband through the surgery and out of the anesthesia. I'm grateful to all the people who prayed for us, and for Stephanie, who took my children overnight and allowed me to spend more time at the hospital. (And who brought me dinner which alleviated my chronic fast food heartburn for the first time in days.) I'm grateful to my boys who were quiet watching Superman Returns and Veggie Tales on a loop with earphones so as not to disturb their sleeping father. I'm grateful to Plum Sykes and Charlaine Harris, whose books entertained me through hours of sitting in a semi-dark room, waiting until Nolan needed something.
But most of all, I'm grateful to my husband. I'm glad he's the sort of man that I want to get better, that I miss when he's not around, and who cared enough about our quality of life to have this taken care of before it got out of hand. And I will be grateful when he is whole again.
So my tiredness will pass. It will. It's just a season. He'll get better and life will go on. It will. ItwillItwillItwill.
You can just smell the hopelessness there. It hangs in the air like a living entity, enveloping the patients and staff, making it hard to breathe.
Or maybe that was just what they use to clean the floors.
But I'm pretty sure it was the hopelessness.
Anyway, private hospital or not, the cleanliness was not antiseptic. It was actually more like how I keep my house, which honestly, let me tell you that some weeks is with a lick and a promise. Seriously, I am thankful Nolan is home, that he's somewhat mobile, and that he's on the mend. I can tell he's getting better because the orneriness is at an all time high. He WON'T take his pain medication. ('I'm a MAAAAAAN!') And he got a little shirty about taking his muscle relaxers. But I strongarmed him into it. He may outweigh me by 70 pounds, and be over a foot taller, but when I put my foot down, my size seven wide makes an IMPRINT, y'all.
I'm grateful that I don't have real problems. I'm grateful for my family's continued good health. I'm so, so, so, so grateful that I can wash off that "hospital smell" and I don't have to go up there again for it to seep into my pores again. I'm grateful for the nursing staff, who did their best, even though they were understaffed. I'm grateful for the doctor, who put twenty-two staples in my husband's back, and who relieved him of his chronic pain. I'm grateful to God, who saw my husband through the surgery and out of the anesthesia. I'm grateful to all the people who prayed for us, and for Stephanie, who took my children overnight and allowed me to spend more time at the hospital. (And who brought me dinner which alleviated my chronic fast food heartburn for the first time in days.) I'm grateful to my boys who were quiet watching Superman Returns and Veggie Tales on a loop with earphones so as not to disturb their sleeping father. I'm grateful to Plum Sykes and Charlaine Harris, whose books entertained me through hours of sitting in a semi-dark room, waiting until Nolan needed something.
But most of all, I'm grateful to my husband. I'm glad he's the sort of man that I want to get better, that I miss when he's not around, and who cared enough about our quality of life to have this taken care of before it got out of hand. And I will be grateful when he is whole again.
So my tiredness will pass. It will. It's just a season. He'll get better and life will go on. It will. ItwillItwillItwill.