Waiting

I’m sitting on yet another hard, plastic, hospital chair. Thus time waiting whilst P has an operation to remove c70cm of intestine, including a 2.5cm tumour. It’s been suggested to me (with emphasis) that I might like to go home. Or go shopping. Or go to a coffee shop (this is Whitechapel but I guess Starbucks has even got here (not that I’ve seen one)). The consultant had said I could sit outside theatre whilst he had his op - but the place the nurse (reluctantly) indicated is some way away. So I won’t know when he comes out. They will call me, but not necessarily as soon as they finish. I cannot imagine whiling the time away, shopping- even if there was anywhere nearby to shop. I am keeping a firm grip on my nerves, my hopes and my expectations.

Then - assuming it all goes well (and I AM assuming that) - he’ll be in hospital for up to a week. It could be another fortnight before we find out whether he’ll need “further treatment” (chemo). The waiting is interminable - every time I think we’re getting to a point where we’ll have enough information to make (or break) plans, they whip the goalposts away, re-siting them on the far horizon.

Some days it feels unreal. Some days it feels like it was ‘just’ a bad dream. And some days it feels like we’re stuck inside the bad dream.