It felt less like a vacation when he had to abstain from his coffee this morning. Less like a vacation when I ate the leftover curry for breakfast, knowing he couldn't eat. At the hospital with him on a gurney in a paper gown waiting for what was almost forever, we had nothing to do really but talk and the vacation feeling came back--almost. All the time in the world was what we had, it seemed. Me resting my hand on his forehead, on his arm; leaning over to kiss him. Just the two of us behind a flimsy curtain.
My stomach didn't feel like it made it all the way up to 5th floor when we rode the elevator to surgery. He was sleepy by then. His blood sugar off a bit. We talked to the surgeon and the anesthesiologist which is something one doesn't do on vacation. And on vacation, one doesn't usually sit in the hospital lobby, waiting to hear if the cancer was successfully removed.