Post 19: “I don’t want you home!”
Vital statistics:
Temp: 36.5 
BP: 115/79/56
Weight: not bothered
Hair: who cares
Anything else? Belly bruise surprise
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How blinking rude is that! My Darling doesn’t want me back home. What on earth have I done to cause such a turnaround in her love for me… 
️
Yesterday’s anxiety about the dangers I’m facing in this five-bed bay is diminishing by the hour. I’m starting to feel more able to deal with the situation, even though I’m still wearing a mask and hiding behind my trusty blue curtains around my bed.
I put the improvement mostly down to the healing trust I have in the staff who are all looking after me here and keeping me safe.
No doubt I’m also spurred on by My Darling pointing out that I’m very unwell inside and need an all-clear on the invisible and sinister embolisms before getting back to “normality” — which I’m hoping is the only reason she’s using in telling me she doesn’t want me home. 
When all’s said and done, I still want to be in my own place, with my own wife, my own cat, my own mess.
To relax, hear only my bodily noises and smells, and get back to the K-Dramas I’m lost without, on our own TV — and get away from here.
But first, I need to stop worrying.
Stop worrying about the pain I can see in My Darling’s eyes.
It’s not fair of me to have a unilateral view on this illness. I’m half of her; she’s half of me. We are a team — in all respects, especially now.
I should not be thinking selfishly for my temporary personal gain; we need to figure this out together for the future medical wellbeing of us both.
Casting my mind back to all the hospital visits I’ve ever made — that I choose to remember — I find myself reevaluating the patient’s position.
If I put myself in their slippers, so to speak, I should be filled with their resilience and strength. I remember their strength — where’s mine?
I’m struck by the confidence I’ve always had in staff as a visitor, and the stark difference I feel as a patient.
Am I that type of person who stubbornly holds onto personal preference over rational thinking — an attitude I despise, by the way?
Who am I right now?
The early morning “peace” — peace of mind, not peace at large — is allowing me to reorganise my mind.
And with the usual noises on this ward as a backdrop, I allow myself to drift through the events of the last three days.
I’m starting to see how serious my circumstances are — but for whatever reasons, I’ve been ignoring them. Ignoring them in favour of showing how emotionally strong I can be, and how good I am at shielding everyone else from worry.
What a plonker I’ve been.
I just need to get better, and everything will slot into place automatically.
The more I resist the help I’m freely given here by the staff, the longer I’ll inflict pain and suffering on all those supporting me.
I need to change my attitude right now — and be a better patient and husband.
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My official observations yesterday were satisfactory with one exception: clotting.
The blood-thinning injection in my belly isn’t yet having any effect. This is crucial for the reduction and eventual dispersal of both clots.
If the treatment was a game of snakes and ladders, I’ve just been gobbled up by the snake and deposited back on the start line.
Damn!
Note: The nurse giving me my daily belly injection last night looked at me with a bit of shock when she saw a big black lozenge-shaped bruise on the site where the first blood-thinning injection was; it’s the size of a tennis ball.
Oops! I hadn’t noticed that before.
Another survivor scar to add to the collection.
I wonder if soon I’ll have a black and purple line of bruises across my belly?
Nice. 
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Since being admitted to hospital, I have stayed pretty positive and not had the occasion to cry yet — but have been close a few times.
I think that’s a good thing, as there’s been little progress yet.
Yes, I’m impatient for progress (obviously) — but I’m not any worse.
The weekend hospital is very quiet compared to the weekdays — mostly because of the few people toing and froing in the corridors.
I know this from firsthand experience, when I was allowed to go for a little walk yesterday.
It was a treat to take a slow stroll with My Darling out of my blue-curtained safety zone and away from my temporary home.
Holding the hand of the one I love in the dappled sunshine, under the silver birch trees by the entrance to the car parks.
Me, in a dressing gown and slippers in full public view, and her shining brightly beside me in a yellow Mickey Mouse sweatshirt —
I bet we looked a sight — but it was so nice just to sit close and remove the mask and breathe in the warm breeze.
We joined siblings in the USA for a brief catch-up and spoke about how well we’re coping.
Grounding oneself with an amusing video call to loved ones so far away across the world is such a modern elixir of life we now take for granted.
Heading back was as easy as heading out, and I felt a sense of achievement getting back into Bed One in Bay A.
I’m ok.
No pains or breathlessness.
Fab — we can do that again tomorrow.
Something to look forward to.
The nurses taking my roomies’ and my vitals is regular but a welcome sign that staff are on our side, checking and reporting progress.
My stats are fine.
I await the next blood test with hope for improvement.
(I hope they don’t check blood sugars — because I’ve eaten rather a lot of Celebrations, judging by the mountain of multicoloured shiny wrappers on my bedside table.
Note to self: hide the evidence ASAP.)
My Darling wants me better — it’s better for me to stay here in bed A1. ️
The Loop’s on hold — paused, but not beaten.
Soon I’ll be rolling again.
PS
Hold up just one minute…
A consultant has just given me the all clear to go home. That’s a big surprise and the best news ever.
I’m told my heart is straining much less now and if I’m taught how to inject myself, I can be discharged.
I’ll text My Darling the fabulous news, she’s probably driving down here right now. 
️️
What a relief: I’m going home. 
