So, it's 2 a.m. What are YOU doing?

Funny thing about being a departing patient from a hospital -- even if you just had your thumb stitched, you leave in a wheelchair. One would think any simple procedure renders the legs useless and thus, out you go perched on wheels. But that was fine. I was up for the ride. After all, what if that missing pain finally kicked in and dropped me to my knees. And, truth be told, I had been having trouble -- actually, measurable pain -- in my left knee. I had tried, a couple of times, to convince the surgeon that as long as I was going to be put out with a hammer anyway, couldn't he take a whack at that knee at the same time. Sort of a BOGO plan. But, he politely refused. He was a breast man.

And so, I was wheeled out, assisted into the car and off we went. Jeff offered to stop at the pharmacy and have the pain prescriptions filled, but I had him hold off. I wasn't sure there was going to be significant enough pain to warrant taking a pill that would knock me out for the next 24 hours. However, I could go for some soup.

Jeff was hungry too. I waited in the car while he grabbed some carry-out from Panera. Home at last, we had soup, split a sandwich and talked about the day. I thought surely any minute I would be face down in the soup, out like a street light on the Dan Ryan. But no. I was alert. I was fine. Jeff looked more tired than me, but that was understandable. I've played that hospital waiting game too many times. There are diversions for the patient. For those who also serve and wait, it's mind-numbingly dull. He kept asking if I had any pain yet. Nope. How about now? No. Now? No, but if you ask me one more time, you might experience some.

The pain never came, but the exhaustion did. In like a lion. Maybe I'd just go lie down for awhile. That was probably around 6:30 p.m. Next thing I knew, it was 2 a.m. and I was as awake as if I had just downed a thermos of coffee. Common sense and good breeding has taught me that, no matter how sleepless you are, you don't call friends or family at 2 a.m. and say, "So, what are you doing?" However, the Internet allows us to send out pithy messages via email that the recipient can wait 'til noon to open and read, if they so desire. I thought of all the relatives and friends who made me promise to let them know how I was doing, soon as I was capable. What a great plan-- like getting thank you notes out of the way so that the daylight hours could be devoted to more recreational activities.

And so my fingers flew across the computer keys, letting all who had a need to know that the surgery was over; the patient not only survived, but thrived; the soup had been really good; I had no pain and if this continued, I'd probably be back to work day after tomorrow. By now, it was 3 a.m. and thank God I didn't have a roller and a can of paint, or I'd probably have painted the bedroom.