New Journey

It is going to slow down soon...

I'm at the hospital and my son is doing much better. He began to eat a little today, using the new and improved esophagus and testing the repaired stomach.

Seems to be working.

Lots of milestones for him today. Eating, a drainage tube removed, the intravenous nutrition cut off. He is walking better. Bodily functions, the three common states of matter, gas, liquid, and solids, all being handled in the most mortal of ways.

Isaac has gone through a lot of changes this past week. He's known more pain. He has had time to reflect (see earlier post where I captured some of those thoughts) and seems more aware of everything around him... people, events. More empathetic.

I think that is normal. I know the traumas of my life led me to feel more deeply...

They just removed the last IV tube! The ports are still there, and he still has one more drainage bag in his abdomen... I've been writing this post one paragraph at a time... A little writing, then help him walk, a little more writing, then help him sit up, a little more writing, and then guide him to the bathroom, a little more writing, and then elevate his feet...

Anyway, back to this post...

This hospital stay has been a bit of a journey in many ways for him.

He has become more self aware too. And self assured.

When the fellow, Steve, the guy best at inserting tubes, was here to attempt the drain tube through his nose a few days ago, he asked: "Shall I call you 'Isaac', or 'Mr. Greenleaf'?"

"Call me Mr. Greenleaf."

Huh!

He learned to say "no" this week. He has always been so compliant. I got a text message from Brenda yesterday saying his constipation was preventing them from giving him the Jello, and he was refusing the suppository that would help.

I walked him through the reasoning for such strange medicine and he took another brave move into a new world of remedies.

I am so tired... Been coming and going... Canby to Portland, Portland to Canby. Scooting along in that Ford Mustang I bought on New Year's Eve... None of my sleep for the last week was uninterupted. It will be better soon.

He is supposed to go home tomorrow. Hope it happens. There have been many changes to such predictions in the past.I suppose this hospital stay of his has been a journey of my own.

It began with me doing most of the watching over him. Brenda flew in on her... well... I really should change her ringtone to something kinder... the witch theme from the Wizard of Oz is a little sarcastic (but it does make me smile)... anyway, she flew in and took over. Or tried to. I stopped her and then let her, on my terms.

She asked to talk in the hospital cafeteria. Two elevator rides, six hallways, in subdued non-conversation. She asked if she could help care for Isaac after he was discharged.

"It is going to be difficult caring for him and I would like to help."

"That isn't going to happen," I said.

She became indignant.

"Nope. The closest you can come to my home is the end of the driveway, and I would prefer you didn't do that."

"Well!"

"Sorry, that is how it will be. I need my own place. Having you there, going through my fridge, fixing meals, sweeping floors. It's not what divorced people do."

"They do if they are mature."

"Name one."

She struggled to answer in silence. She grabbed her coat, got up, started to leave.

I didn't even glance at her.

"You can go if you like," I said, looking at my grapefruit juice, "but I was going to offer a way for you to be a part of this."

She returned to her seat. It sorted of spoiled the dramatic effect she was going for.

"You want to be a part of Isaac's recovery... fine. It just isn't going to be in my home. You can have the hospital. You can take the time off work if you want, you can spend all the time you want here. You can talk to the doctors, make sure things go smooth. But, when he is discharged it is all mine. And... you need to keep me informed of all developments, and you have to give me privacy with him when I come to visit."

She nodded agreement.

I was glad I paid for her coffee. Such small moves in the weird chess game we play count.

Since that move in the cafeteria, the one of setting boundaries, where my white bishop slid through her pawns and removed her queen, changed the game forever.

She wavered a bit during the week, seeking to understand the new point of equilibrium between us. Sometimes she sulked, sometimes she was chatty and overly clear in her suggestions. My face displayed no emotion, and when she went too far in her chattiness or her suggestions, I let my gaze slip away as if I wasn't listening anymore.

She has begun to treat me with the respect I know I deserve.

It's a new journey.