A new routine

It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know. - Henry David Thoreau

One of the saddest things about a sudden illness is how quickly you're thrust out of your usual comfortable routine. Suddenly the well-worn path you travel is no longer an option. Everything changes, from the food you eat, to how you spend your day, what you wear, and the sounds you hear at night as you try to find comfort on sheets that aren't your own. Like a friend, the loss of routine is grieved, and you ache to return to it. You long for normalcy.

Twenty-one days into this new adventure, we're finally starting to create new routines. Dad was the first to find his groove: he leaves the hospital in the morning and is gone for only enough time to shower, change into fresh clothes, pay some bills and head back. Otherwise he's never more than a few feet from Mom, and what sleep he catches is done on a fold-out chair in her room.

Alicia, Jennifer and Sara split up the day, with Alicia taking the earliest shift and delivering coffee and breakfast to Dad. Jennifer and Sara follow with the mid-morning to early-evening shifts, taking turns stepping into the lounge area to do some work. (Thank goodness for wireless access and understanding employers.) Visits are made to Starbucks at least twice a day. Dinner is provided generously by friends, and we often enjoy it together and then head back to the hospital to deliver some to Dad before Mom falls asleep around 9 pm.

Mom's day is filled with activity, from the morning of multiple pills, injections and IV drips to the afternoon of occupational therapy, radiation and visits from her much-loved grandbabies. Sometimes she manages to grab a nap, but the steroids and general hospital interruptions make it difficult to relax. She has some of her favorite routine comforts available - her preferred face soap, lavender hand lotion, an iPad loaded with her favorite music - and we keep her chuckling with the wonderful jokes and cards you're all sending. Nevertheless, she asks daily when she can go home, and we know she's counting the hours until she can feel the familiar hum and warmth of the home she's known for over 20 years.

We celebrate some progress toward normalcy:

• Macklin and Charles returned from California for another visit. (Sara/Mommy may not let Macklin out of her arms for the whole weekend.)
• Mom's speech is getting better, especially late in the day.
• The neurosurgeon said Mom doesn't have to give up wine. "Sure, why not?" he said. "Just don't drink the whole bottle. But if it helps you to relax, then enjoy." (We cheered.)

And maybe best of all, Mom may be released soon to a rehab facility or skilled nursing facility while she regains her strength. The move is complicated by ridiculous Medicare rules that make it difficult for rehab facilities to host patients undergoing radiation therapy, so we have some homework and searching to do before she can move. 

Still, we're encouraged and determined - one step out of the hospital is one step closer to home.