Waiting

Checking in was easy and quick.  There was no time to fret over the mask-below-the-nose guy sitting across from us. 

Registration was simple.  Verify who you are and what you're here for, turn over your Advance Directive/Living Will, attach a wristband, find the elevators (they were on the left, not the right as we were directed), and go to the Surgery Area.

The mask-below-the-nose-guy followed us here, but turned around and left so there was still no need to fret.  Kellie, our nurse, came right away and took us back to #15, a large, curtained roomette.  She explained the further cleansing required (6 warm, coated, disposable washcloths) and left us to it.  

Dressed in his hospital gown, he lay on the bed and waited.

And waiting is the hardest part.  

The surgeon came in.  He was ready.  The anesthesiologists came in and did their poking and sticking and prepping  

And we waited.  I just want this done already.  It had only been 5 minutes between the surgeon and the anesthesiologists (there were a lot of them) but it felt like forever.  The Goal Gradient Effect was in full force.  As the time approached, the minutes got longer.

Once he makes up his mind, TBG is ready to start.  Waiting for the middle of August.  Waiting for tomorrow.  Waiting to wake up.  Waiting to be wheeled into surgery.  He was understanding but READY.

And now I am waiting.  The hospital is bright and airy, with floor to ceiling windows bracketing every corridor and exterior wall.  The waiting area is comfy and well appointed; there are plugs and desks and tables and padded chairs.  There's even a Quiet Room I may use if the ladies in the next area continue to laugh uproariously.

But, for now, I sit and type, using my time wisely and well.

After all, how often do you have several hours with nowhere to go and nothing to do..... but wait.