Sunday

Okay, pretend you didn’t know that Mickey came home yesterday. Let us turn back the clock to Friday evening.

In the course of a highly active day, Mickey also experienced quite a bit of pain, which was treated in several different ways. Adele came on at 4:00 as usual. She is bright and efficient, but also a bit wide-eyed and dewy, a twenty-something who moved to New York from the Philippines seven years ago. Mick had realized on the first or second day that he didn’t really need private-duty care in the hours after the daytime parade of doctors and therapists had gone home, but Adele was so sweet and lovely it seemed rude to let her go. Anyway, after dinner Friday, with the big day over, not having really eaten or slept for four days, and with a smorgasbord of pain meds coursing through him, Mick fell into a deep, deep sleep—for about half an hour. Then he shot awake, in breathless panic. Adele came to the bed and stood over him with her flower-like face. “What’s going on? Where am I?” he asked. “Beth Israel Hospital,” she replied. “What? You’re kidding. Why?” “You had spine surgery three days ago.” “WHAT? YOU’RE KIDDING! WHY?” To her credit, Adele did not summon the men with the butterfly nets. She asked Mick if he knew who he was—he did (offering without prompting everything down to his full name, his profession, his address and social security number)—and if he knew who she was— and he did, by name. His blood pressure was normal, but his heart was racing. Bit by bit, he bought Adele’s explanation of where he was and why, and calmed down. Then a little while later it happened again (brief deep sleep, sudden panicked awakening, no clue), but this time Mick had some recall of the previous event, and calmed down faster. Kudos to Adele for being such a total pro; we overestimated her ingenuousness and underestimated her capability. Mick passed the balance of the night restlessly but without incident.

Saturday morning Mick had the presence of mind to ask the floor nurse for a full accounting of the meds he’d been given Friday. He shared this information with the young cardiologist who comes by very early each day to administer a post-op EKG, a low-key good listener who’d become a sort of pal over the course of the week. The doctor allowed that, while hospitals are inherently disorienting places, the meds Mickey’d had the day before were enough to alter anyone’s sense of reality.

A swift jumble of white-coated persons came in and out of the room, almost all of them new faces (it was after all the weekend) and all of them part of the process of signing off on Mick’s release. He had persuaded Andrea to come home with us the first day. At 11:30, we put Mick in a wheelchair with a still-in-its-cellophane flower arrangement on his lap (Andrea and I were laden with other stuff) and wheeled him out into the bitter cold. He looked a little like somebody leaving a wedding reception with the centerpiece. Getting in and out of the car was no small assignment for Mick, but Andrea’s expertise and the joy of going home made it easier.

After unpacking everything and sorting out the meds (only three now), we had takeout soup and sandwiches for lunch. Andrea gave us some invaluable tips about bathing and other maneuvers. With hugs and best wishes and exchanges of contact information we packed her off to Far Rockaway. Mick’s pain ebbed and flowed, according to the clock and the med schedule, through the evening, but we caught up on Top Chef, and he ate a whole ham-and-cheese sandwich for dinner.

Last night was not so great for him. He’d sleep deeply for an hour or so, have disturbing dreams, and wake up drenched with sweat. He went through three t-shirts during the night, and this morning was visibly the worse for wear. On questioning, it also became clear he hadn’t taken all the pain meds he was entitled to (I think after the Friday night episode he wanted to take it light.) After a brief but enlightening tête a fist we got all that sorted out, and by 10:00 am he was in the shower and happy. Midday there was a visit from a representative of the Visiting Nurse Service, instantly dubbed "Nurse Jill" by Mick, a peppy Long Islander with a spray tan, false eyelashes, unfortunate face, and killer bod. She asked a lot of questions in preparation for the nurse and physical therapist who will each visit a couple of times a week, then she checked Mick’s blood pressure (fine), inspected his anterior incision (sutures already out, also fine) and posterior incision (eight inches long, still with monster sutures, and so straight they must have used a T-square, but fine), and ably answered some general maintenance questions.

At three we journeyed out. Mick is supposed to walk for at least 30 minutes a day from Day 1, and while he covers close to that ambling around the apartment, it was a beautiful day, and there was no time like the present. With cane in hand and presidential bearing (the surgeon had said the operation would leave Mick taller, and while there hasn’t yet been an opportunity to measure him we both believe it’s true), he walked from the front door of 320 to First Avenue, then turned and walked all the way to Second Avenue, and back to 320. Two blocks: certainly a longer haul than any he’d ventured at Beth Israel.

So things are good, but our boy is still very much on the mend. He’s got the meds figured out, but there are still short stretches when the pain is blinding, and brief pockets where the meds knock him out. But he is confident each day will be better. Also, there is swelling. After surgery, they pump you full of IV fluids like nobody’s business—he didn’t eat for five days and still came out of the hospital twelve pounds heavier than he went in. His belly is distended and his feet so swollen he could barely get his socks over them today. They say this will subside very soon.

Yesterday afternoon Mickey asked me to print out these posts so he could read them. Against my better judgment, I did. He was amused, but felt I was painting perhaps too noble a picture of him. This may be true. In my defense, I will say that fatigue and concern make me earnest. Also, I was and am genuinely floored by how he’s coping. But in the spirit of his editorial comment, your formerly high-road-taking blogger will offer a couple of out-takes (and possibly more later, as they emerge from the suppressed depths of his better judgment):

Much has been made—here and room 3 Dazian 3—of the general wonderfulness of nurse Andrea. Indeed, as early as Wednesday Mickey said to her “I feel like I’ve known you all my life”—which he followed, after a brief pause, with “And what was your name again?” Over the course of the week he variously addressed her as Adrian, Adri, Andy, and Andrew. And yesterday, after she left: “She was a little bossy, no?”

Mickey was sent home with a “Golden Girls-style” (his term) potty extension, a thing with handles you set atop the regular throne, raising the seat level by about half a foot, so the sitting and rising are less arduous. He says the distance to the water makes it like going to the bathroom on a wishing well.