Learning Who Your Friends Are from A Hospital Bed (And: Mr.Thyme on His Own Plus The Face Update)

I'll be the first to admit this: I am not really keen on people seeing me in my pajamas. And I'll also be the first to admit, I am not one to jump up out of my chair or sofa to visit friends in the hospital. (Not that this has been an ongoing theme in my life--I am "almost fifty"--but no one is dying here, okay?) I know this sounds awful. Hospitals have always scared me. I was so sick as a kid with my asthma, then seemed to get whatever the heck illness I'd acquire later in life to a degree that would label me "atypical" in nearly all instances.


Oh, Kelly, you have a very atypical this or atypical that. Oh, really?! (But I get props for being "healthy"--and trust me folks, coming into anything like this with a leg up is a plus--being vegan and being active really helps!)

So, as I was saying about atypical. Something like a pain in my side that I might have ignored until I doubled over and had to be carried through a hospital door. Atypical. Something like waking up in the middle of the night with a 104 degree temperature and (not wanting to disturb my sleeping husband until it was closer to him having to be awake for work) then freaking him out of his mind when I tapped on his shoulder to say: Um, I sort of think I might be coming down with something. Atypical.

I think this stems from my mother's dealing with me not only as an ill asthmatic child, but also her dealing with me as I got older--I think I just wore her out. For starters--suddenly it was no big deal when I ran in the house screaming that my arm was broken (I heard the bone snap when this kid knocked me off my bike). Here, take a Tylenol and go lie down--you'll be fine. To two hours later her walking in on me writhing in pain and nearly out cold. . . then her taking me to the hospital. Atypical.

This past week has been a truly eye-opening experience in that there are a few people who've shown up in my room who really, I consider very, very dear friends, but never expected them to come waltzing in my room with flowers or just a smile and a hug. Seriously, I just don't want to put people out like that. I am a person who spends a lot of time alone, and really, I am cool being by myself--they call us "introverts". And I am, (but if you were to meet me, you might read--oh, she's so outgoing!). I put on a good face when need be, and if I like you it helps--it just wears me out to do so. Thus, I limit my "people stuff" when I can. But, take it from me, I think this experience has changed me a bit (just a bit)--and for my friends reading this out there--okay, I might be able to visit you in the hospital--might, after this. (But funerals are still out.)

I had the biggest surprise this evening when a dear friend of mine, her daughter and husband drove nearly forty miles to visit me. Surprised me out of my whits is what it did. Lifted my spirits and made me smile (though it still hurts to smile). I cried. I was so grateful. Short of them bringing me a dog to pet--I just couldn't begin to tell you how much this meant to me. Being stuck in a hopsital on a weekend is worse than being stuck in the hospital on Valentine's Day. Oh. . . wait, I will be stuck in the hospital on Valentine's Day!

Here's an update. Okay, so yesterday I had two procedures done. One thing was in preparation to get me home (Monday we are hoping). A pre-plan, if you will. The other thingy involved my goiter on the side of my face (it's not really a goiter--well, it was, now it is something by another medical term and was pretty serious, but I am using my HIPAA rights to not disclose too much here)--and you are supposed to be put under for "dealing with"--but, alas, I had local pain numbing instead because of the urgency involved and all. I will simply state--after the second procedure: I think I could take a bullet after this. Seriously. You know all of that silliness on "Lost" with Jack always finding a palm leaf or something to heal everyone on the island? And using water or some crazy Dharma Initiative junk from a bottle to inject someone with. Yeah. I don't think so. All of them would be long gone by now.

My progress has been good, well, except for yesterday. Not a fun day. But had to do the procedures to get me to point "B"--that's how medicine works. You can't just hope on a wing and prayer and head first. I trust these folks. Mr. Thyme, the trained biochemist--I leave the "questions" to him. He's on "doctor speak" level. I am like: It. Hurts. Help. Now. And then I cry and fall asleep. I love my nurses, too. They sometimes cry with me. (But always professional about it.) They have been great comfort to me.

Me? I will be fine. Mr. Thyme. . . I am worried about him. Here's why:

Honey, what'd you have for dinner last night.
Refried bean dip. ('Kay)

Honey, what'd you have for dinner last night.
Tofu dogs and a can of beans. ('Kay)

Then tonight--after he left, (after I drug him out of bed this morning at eight to sit here with me until my "procedure #2 doctor" arrived so he could speak "doctor" with him). After I made sure we both ate breakfast and lunch together--so I could see he had eaten at least two decent meals. (Decent meals.) So then tonight.

Ring. Ring. (My hospital bed phone tonight.)
Mr. Thyme: Hi! Hey, uh, how do I bake a potato?
Me: You mean like microwave or bake?
Mr. Thyme: Bake. . . in the oven.
Me: (Gulp.) 'Kay. Turn the oven on to 400. Now scrub the potato really well. Then, just take it and poke it with a fork a couple of times on the top and bottom.
Mr. Thyme: Uh huh.
Me: Now, place the potato in the oven just like that, set it right on the rack. . . for about 40 minutes.
Mr. Thyme: Okay, got it.
Me: Is that all you're having?

And on it goes. Women, I know you know of what I speak here. Seriously.