Yesterday was the day. The pick-me-up. I walked into my mom's room in the ICU and she was back. From Sunday to Tuesday she'd come back in spurts. Periods of lucidness followed by long fugue states in which she'd think she was folding laundry, scolding the dog, or telling people how to fix their computer. She was resting but it wasn't restful.
Last night, she was herself again. Not 100% healed but awake. Able to carry on conversations with us. Tired, weak, but THERE.
This past week has been such a blur. My routine has been hospital, work, hospital, home, sleep, hospital, work, hospital, home, sleep. Yesterday I went to the grocery, the first non-hospital, non-work thing I've done all week, because Phoebe had about four pieces of cat food left. I've lost five pounds. Stress is a great diet.
I just calculated that I have driven back and forth to the hospital sixteen times in the past week. Damn, Gina.
I wish I had something more eloquent to say, but I'm just so relieved. And grateful for all the people in my life who have made this whole situation somewhat bearable. That includes you, Internets. All of your nice comments really did help. Sometimes it seems so strange to me that I have these tenuous relationships with voices over the internet. I don't really KNOW any of you and yet I find myself thinking about you at times. If we didn't all live billions of miles away from each other, I would so hang out with all of you.
I'll bring the wine.