Fun in 418

We got home this morning. After being dashed through a biting wind into the house, Daphne sat a little bewildered in her carseat for the first moment or two. Then the sounds and smells of Home registered with her, and she broke into smiles. I know how she feels.

She's still wheezy but very much herself. Addie and Stuart have played happily all day, glad that life is normal again. Darren and I are managing to hold up, albeit saggingly.

The following is a blog post I wrote in the hospital. I'm a pretty dedicated blogger, I guess, if I'm offline for four days and still manage two posts -- written out in neat cursive, no less! I hate to waste finished material, and I certainly don't have the stamina to come up with a new one right now (this little introduction has pretty much sapped my creative powers). So enjoy. And if you don't, then use the experience to build character.

***

While Darren soldiers on under full-time Kid Duty -- feeding, doctoring, comforting, refereeing, and (most challenging of all) picking out Sunday clothes -- Daphne and I are kicking back here in our resort room #418, complete with a bed disguised as a 2'x7' sofa, and a panoramic view of the parking lot.

So what do you do when you're the healthy one confined to a hospital room? (And I do mean confined: because RSV is very contagious, I can't take Daphne out of the room.) Fortunately, there's an endless list of fun things to do in situations like this. Or not endless, actually, or not very fun. But you can make lists if you want to.

I watch T.V., usually with the volume down, for as long as I want, usually about 20 minutes at a stretch. The Super Bowl is tonight, but what mostly interests me about the Super Bowl is its increasingly complicated numbering system. Super Bowl I, V, and especially X must have seemed like a good idea at the time. Obviously nobody thought ahead to, say, Super Bowl XXXIV, which looks stupid. Won't it really be snazzy when it's "Super Bowl L"? According to Dave Barry, Roman numerals were a direct cause of the fall of the Empire.

Friday night I watched an episode of "Grey's Anatomy," a drama I know a little about because I'm friends with a psychotically devoted fan. It's a cool show, Barbara. I was hooked all the way through. Granted, the next morning I realized that the part about that patient's toxic blood fumes that nearly wiped out the entire medical staff was roll-on-the-floor funny, but at the time it seemed workable.

Apart from my T.V. sessions, I spend my time with 20Q. This little hand-held electronic is fascinating. (Dana and Nina gave it to me for my birthday so I wouldn't steal theirs.) It asks 20 - 25 seemingly random questions about an object you have in mind. You answer with Yes, No, Sometimes, and Unknown... all the while thinking, "There's no way it's going to get the right answer this time." Three out of four times, it does.

One small adventure was washing my hair with Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo. But that wasn't fun. More like sad.

I daydream about sneaking downstairs for a Coffee Toffee, a blended iced coffee drink. It rarely comes about because Daph hears me thinking about it and pops up wide-awake and needing company. But no one can take away my dreams.

I'm always calling my mother, ostensibly to give updates but mostly to have conversations that don't involve oxygen levels and treatment schedules. [In retrospect, there were a lot of other people I could have called to let them know what was going on, but we spent the whole weekend thinking, "She'll just be in one more day. No need to alert anyone except our parents." By the fourth day, we realized our mistake but it was a bit late then.]

One thing I don't do is eat breakfast. The food here is very edible and occasionally good, but I've had no luck with breakfast. One morning I got pancakes with syrup but no butter. The next day I got French toast with butter but no syrup. By the time I finish my Mama duties and get to any of my meals, they're stone-cold. I'd rather have a Coffee Toffee, anyway.

Darren, Addie, and Stuart visit once or twice every day. I never feel like a large family until we're all packed into #418. Stuart's snow boots alone take up significant floor space. (No, we haven't had any snow. He wore his pajamas under his church clothes today even though there was no naptime during the service.) The kids find these visits boring, and it's a hassle for Darren, but I need them.

My pastor's wife checks in pretty frequently. Daphne's illness is of primary importance at the church. Daphne is, after all, church property, and everyone wants to make sure that Darren and I take good care of her.

In among everything else, I listen to the conversations and activities in the world outside my door. I hear babies crying, kids coughing, overwrought little voices wailing, "No! No!" It makes me very grateful for modern medicine that turns my baby's life-threatening congestion into a mere tedious wait for recovery. There are children much sicker than Daphne, and parents much more anxious than Darren and I are. We agreed that hospital stays are like airplane trips: either they're mind-numbingly boring, or incredibly stressful with the occasional moments of terror.

All things considered, I'm glad to sit here in room #418 and be bored.

-- SJ