Monday, February 28, 2011
Mike update: My son and I visited Mike in the hospital Sunday. We stopped at the Soldiers Home first to pick up Mike’s CDs and the squeaky little squirrel we’d given him last time he was in the hospital, thinking if it helped him recover before, maybe it’d help him again.
We do not like hospitals. Mike doesn’t, either. But he is in good hands, his roommate is quiet and his nurse seemed pretty optimistic about Mike’s recovery. They brought backup batteries for his CD player, spare straws for his drinks—and crispy clean linens, since he’d just spilled his last drink.
We watched a little golf on TV (along with the little machine that displays Mike’s vitals), and he asked me to write down my phone numbers in large type.
“I don’t have my stupid glasses,” Mike said. Argh. Wish I’d rifled through his room at the Soldiers Home a little more thoroughly.
The nurse advised Mike not to talk so much, so we left him to rest and promised we’d check in soon.
“You have become very good friends,” Mike told us, blatantly defying medical orders. “You keep me hanging on.”
When I called Mike this morning, he answered the phone and sounded stronger already.
“I have a bare butt poking out right now,” he laughed.
“Glad I’m just on the phone, then, and not there," I said.
I asked when he’d be going home, and he asked his nurse.
“She said just another day or two,” Mike reported.
Mike is amazingly strong and resilient. He’s not just hanging on—he’s getting better. Again.
Mike update: My son and I visited Mike in the hospital Sunday. We stopped at the Soldiers Home first to pick up Mike’s CDs and the squeaky little squirrel we’d given him last time he was in the hospital, thinking if it helped him recover before, maybe it’d help him again.
We do not like hospitals. Mike doesn’t, either. But he is in good hands, his roommate is quiet and his nurse seemed pretty optimistic about Mike’s recovery. They brought backup batteries for his CD player, spare straws for his drinks—and crispy clean linens, since he’d just spilled his last drink.
We watched a little golf on TV (along with the little machine that displays Mike’s vitals), and he asked me to write down my phone numbers in large type.
“I don’t have my stupid glasses,” Mike said. Argh. Wish I’d rifled through his room at the Soldiers Home a little more thoroughly.
The nurse advised Mike not to talk so much, so we left him to rest and promised we’d check in soon.
“You have become very good friends,” Mike told us, blatantly defying medical orders. “You keep me hanging on.”
When I called Mike this morning, he answered the phone and sounded stronger already.
“I have a bare butt poking out right now,” he laughed.
“Glad I’m just on the phone, then, and not there," I said.
I asked when he’d be going home, and he asked his nurse.
“She said just another day or two,” Mike reported.
Mike is amazingly strong and resilient. He’s not just hanging on—he’s getting better. Again.
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