Home from the Hospital

After two months in the hospital and three surgeries, my husband was going home. The drive graced with beautiful scenery went unnoticed as he stared at his leg with eyes filled with pain and sorrow, waiting for the brutal muscle spasms that have tortured him since the amputation, body tensing at every bump in the road, which is never longer than when heading home from the hospital; I thought as I looked at him holding his thigh.

San Juan faded in my rearview mirror. Memory of Kirt’s face the first time he saw the stump, flooded me with sadness. Loss so profound, unspoken, told by his eyes, when he took in his body and then looked into my eyes, slashed my heart. My pain at his loss is so great, how can he bear it? Greeted by green hills and blue ocean, Kirt began to look around.

Typically busy Friday afternoon traffic on the autopista/tollway demanded my attention. On rt. 22 there is a big charcoal colored fence with white birds that we noticed on our first ride west. He and I look at that fence. We smiled at each other for the first time in a while.

By the time we saw the exit sign for rt. 129 to Lares, Kirt’s pain meds were thin, so we pulled into the first gas station to medicate him before hitting the hills, the last leg of the journey twists and undulates. It will be the most challenging. I want the med to be kicking in good before we get to rt. 453. Some time is purchased at a roadside vendor along with watermelon, avocados and bananas.

Up the hill we go. I’m getting so tired. Two months of sitting by my husband’s bed hasn’t done anything good for my stamina, so all the running around and standing in line to get his gear and meds is taking its toll. It’s now rush hour on Friday. God, I want to be home.

On the highway the scenery enchanted Kirt, taking his mind off his pain. They don’t call this place La Isla del Encanto for nothing, but now we’re on bumpy country roads, that snake to and fro with everybody in a hurry to get home, including me. One thing about being a senior is that our limits become more clearly defined. I am burning out like a rocket’s red glare, so of course, I push harder. Kirt’s short leg went into spasm. He’s holding the leg in the air screaming as we hit a bump. Out of the corner of my eye it looks like he’s holding an elephant phallus. People want to get around us. It’s rush hour and I’m so tired, or maybe a little low blood sugar. I slowed down, so Kirt could get a grip on his pain and release his leg. Shit, I didn’t want Kirt to arrive home writhing.

From the car to the wheel chair, from the wheel chair to the bed transfers were made as quickly as I could manage. I ripped into his bag of meds to find the best pain management to handle him after the journey. The doctor told me he was going to step Kirt’s pills back a bit, but from 40 mg to 10mg, holy smoke, my eyes bulged out of my head, when I read that, but didn’t say a word. We focused on Kirt’s breathing. I held his stump in a gentle traction until the spasms subsided. We were home.