Friday night, August 11, 2006
"Food, glorious food!" -- Oliver! (Twist)
"But I like solid (food)s!" -- Homer Simpson

Hospital dinner was a "huge piece of roast pork" and corn. (Granted, nobody really digests corn, but stil...). It's a sign mom is truly on the mend.

More and more people are calling her with encouragement, (well, we got the word out, after all). It's a mental trip outside the bland beige generally sunlit room. Away from tubes and prodding and yet another new roommate. The tubes continue disappearing as she can once again breathe on her own (and use the CPAP machine for her sleep apnea at night). There was constant irritation to wipe her nose while there were tubes there. Ripping them out on her own wouldn't have been helping matters.

As symbolism goes, the "hand grenade thing" visible on the outside of her body that's to be dealt with is at some point in time is ... her stomach. That's certainly not creepy at all. [It reminds me of "Humbug," the first episode (and best I've ever seen) of "The X-Files." With the Jim Rose Circus of sideshow oddities, Vincent Schiavelli, and Michael Anderson, the dancing dwarf from "Twin Peaks." It's a light yet fascinating hour with killer asymetrical siamese twins, who don't realize they're siamese twins. We won't tell Mom about this pop culture flashback, shall we?]

My brother has returned from the mayhem and madness of Sturgis, from backstage at the Sammy Hagar concert, where Mom says he got "lots of free stuff." (Syphillis, crabs, T-shirts, gonnerhea?)

One lovely souvenier of this whole experience will be her botched colonscopy on DVD. (Directors commentary? Surround Sound? Deleted scenes?) Copies will not be going out with the Heald Family Christmas cards.

That just seems a long way off. Six months from now brings Valentine's Day. One doctor tells her she won't need to come back to have things checked while the nurses around this floor say she will. (Sure, build up our confidence even more in the sense that anyone around here knows what's going on.) It is doctor-speak that has her worried. She can't understand it, or understand why they can't communicate so that lay-people know what's going on. It's just a part of her nature not to ask. Sigh.

As Dad and I leave, we begin packing up the greenhouse by the sink. bowl and vase and gift upon gift as we ready for her arrival home.

And I'm trying to decide whether to tell the home health care workers whether "Helloooooooooo, Nois'?" is merely a vaudevillian reference (Groucho Marx) or Animaniacs quote.

Wednesday afternoon, August 9, 2006
A quick drop in visit with an actor friend of mine, Eric Johnson, a former student of Mom's. A new face brightens her spirits, and Eric lets her know that a sister of his made it through the same things. "You know, it's tough, but survivable." Eric has even offered to get a copy of the archive film of "The Man Who Came to Dinner," the Black Hills Playhouse show he's starring in that she'll be missing while laid up here and ultimately recovering at home.

My Brother has made it his mission to go attempt to cheer Mom up every day. (Yes, I know, it seems downright counterintuitive, but with getting dentist's appointments and other schedule modifications done, we haven't let her psychiatrist know what's been going on). One of Mom's concerns is that the regular hour (or two) lunch get-togethers going out to eat on Mondays and Fridays with my brother won't be possible with her trapped at home. But whether it's just making sandwiches out of luncheon meat at home or bringing in takeout food (which she'll probably pay for herself), my Brother is committed to ... something or another. We'll be generous and call it "helping out."

James/Eddie, the nurse doesn't know who he is today. He'll been called a lot worse things already than either name he goes by.

It's incrimental progress for Mom who's finally up to bland food. A grape popsicle for breakfast (which I certainly never got to have growing up), and some potato soup and pudding.

At home, Dad has finished building a portable wood closet for the garage as the minor remodel commences. I'm still thinking that to handle all the shoes and decades of forgotten dresses and outfits by her beside (and underneath it) we need several 20 gallon tubs just to Tupperware them up in storage until they can be sorted through (if ever). We're not prepared for her triumphant return. This we know. Another hard to accept fact -- this will not be a short story.

Thursday afternoon, August 10
"I call my baby. Baby I say Debbie get up get up, its time to get yourself together. It's such a beautiful day outside. Simple pleasures are the best. Yes, they are." -- Bobby McFerrin

Arriving in the hospital room, even if Mom's asleep, there is usually somthing a minute later that wakes her up. A monitor or a telephone ring, or a buzzer whether it's in room 603 or down the hallway. She's asleep today. Unlike her husband who often accidentally dings the trash can with his foot, or sets down a bag or package, I let her continue her slumbers. I'm not going to make that decision for her if sleep may be the best thing for her.

There's a new peace plant by the sink, and I almost feel sorry for her new roommate du jour. It's been a week and there are bud vases and bouquets and bouquets and bouquets -- from friends, from work, from inlaws, from us. There are more flowers here than in Martha Sewart's conservatory, ballroom (and any of her other rooms from the Clue board game). Yes, people care a great deal about your well being. Cards, letters, email via the hospital website, ecards. It's hard to express things we frequently should without a gift, or assistance from one of the Cyranos at Hallmark. Personally, I hate sympathy cards. I didn't know the person nearly as well as you did. I don't know if they're headed for a better place. I don't know all that I don't know.

A biker wanders into the room looking for his wife. He thinks mom must be the new roommate. We are definitely not the droids he's looking for.

It's dinner time, and for a clear liquid diet, it's actually closer to a non hospital dinner than she's had in a while. Orange sherbet, cranberry juice, an unidentifiable tan-ish soup, (it's not potato, and it's not a clear broth. Chickenless vegetable-free gumbo?) and coffee, (which dad drinks for her, and we alert the nurses to this so they don't miscount her fluid and nutrient intake). Like myself, mom has never taken to coffee. The cafeteria sets its own menu each morning. Full or clear liquid is the choice. It may be coffee one day and iced or hot tea another. Mom can always request hot tea, she's told. (She's the type of person who probably won't. It might inconvenience the nurses.)

Advance of the day: the catheter's out. This is of course, something they didn't announce to her until she noticed one less apparatus. Now having to make it to the patient bathroom on her own, she's glad she hadn't found out about this development serendipitously. The colostomy bag will deal with her other waste disposal for a half year. She's disgusted by the thought, but as my brother is kind enough to note, it's part of life whether sick or well.

The new catchphrase is "You're Not Really Helping." If can be applied to dad mentioning that there are terrorists attacks over in England too, where an airmail salutation was sent by a friend's daughter. "They probably think we're all screwed up over here" notes mom. ("Well, look at why you've been here all week," I counter).

The new word from the hospital is, mom's intestinal wall was weak in the first place, so even if it is entirely their fault, it's "less" of their problem? She might have wound up in the hospital anyway and it's better to deal with this sooner than later. Ahem, Y.N.R.H.!

Mom does still have something "hand grenade shaped" to be dealt with on her side, she says. And I thought I was going for the "Reader's Digest" direction of "Toward More Picturesque Speech." Hopefully, whatever it is, doesn't explode.

Dad is prepared for the changing of bags and bandage application (which he'll be seeing in movie form tomorrow. I'd rather see "Talladegah Nights: the Ballad of Ricky Bobby" if those were my only choices). What he's not ready to deal with is an augmentation of her previous depression. For someone who watches more "Oprah" and "Dr. Phil" than even Oprah" or Dr. Phil, the theraputic themes seem lost on her. "What I can't do." "What I won't be able to do." Variations on the theme were all she really talked about today. An evil night nurse tells her "she sleeps too much during the day." Even if this is true, I say, she probably wants you to fight her and prove to her that you can inspire her and eventually come back and then beat her up.

Tuesday night, August 8
If one paid attention to Moon Unit Zappa, being "totally tubular" was a good thing. I happen to like "What Do You Want From Life?" by "The Tubes," myself. Mom's tubes however have been far from "bitchin'" and all things considered "gagging her with a spoon," because she can't "go to the galleria."

She is, at the very least, now freed from the finger-pinching, red lit oxygen monitor (on her "E.T." finger.) And able to take another significant baby step: sips of water. And she's increasing her lung power day by day.

She still 24 hours later hasn't had the new socks put on. (If you want something done ... ask a nurse. If they dont do it ... ask another nurse.) Marla got the new ones in the room and on her desk last night, but James/Eddie at least got the old socks off tonight.

The clear plastic "how much can you breathe" machine has a name -- Incentive Spurometer (which i think was one of Groucho Marx's names in "A Night at the Opera." Does it spur her on? If not, I'm pretty sure they have actual spurs in one of the cabinets outside.

I brought the dog, a few rainbows from last night to mom via the laptop. I waited until after the new blonde nurse, aka "todays nurse," was in to check pulse, blood pressure. Not knowing if I'd raise or lower it with thoughts of forbidden pleasures, of a sort.

Bad ideas run in the family, it's not just my brother. My paranoid hypochondriac jailbird / explosives expert / detective / vet / uncle's common law wife calls mom daily with each new illness / calamity (she fell and broke her $400 Walmart recliner, which they bought rather than having ... running water). An actual sister in law (Dad's side) also called tonight to share her misery (breathing, back problems).

In other good news, we can have a home care nurse in to change bags and dressings for... "a while." I've completely changed my mind about Medicare/Medicaid buying one of these $3,000 souped up Rascal/Hoverround electric go-cart "mobility" chairs. A debate should never be made personal.

Mom assumes her back is a mess with all the taping of tubes and itching an epidural. Oh, and wiping out every message from every "ABC AfterSchool Special" -- "Morphine is really nice."

The bride and groom motorcyclists, who were hit by a truck on their way to the Sturgis Rally have been released. Every other day there's an empty bed closer to the window with each new roommate heading home after a single day. Maybe mom should switch beds when they ask. With a semi-private room it's easier to determine that she's the person with somethign beeping. Tonight's weird new alarm? Well that just means this device has it's got a low battery and needs to be plugged into the wall. (Should we ask why it's not always hooked into the wall?)

And another advance just as we leave for the night ... apple juice!

Monday night, August 7

"(She don’t try to hide it) / People say she's crazy. She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes. Well that’s one way to lose these walking blues: diamonds on the soles of her shoes. She was physically forgotten then she slipped into my pocket with my car keys. She said you've taken me for granted, because I please you wearing these diamonds..." -- Paul Simon

The things we all take for granted. They give mom sponge baths, but whether they wash her feet or not, it seems as though she’s been wearing the same pair of skid proof periwinkle sock/booties with blue diamonds on since last week. Probably another $5 added onto the room service bill, as it were, but she's got a new pair and the others will be washed out.

Another routine right of ours is swallowing. Still on the ice chips. she may be able to swallow water again in a few days. But one tube out, several more to go. One taped and retaped and retaped has been taken out of her nose. She still has one nostril nuisance for oxygen support but not one draining ... one odd looking fluid or another.

She thinks by now she's seen the head of every department. Of course. By now they all know how special you are. (And please don't sue us for negligence/malpractice.)

One day mom's tall dark and handsome caretaker has a name tag that says "James," the next it says he's "Eddie." Same guy. It sees after a few months working shifts there he reveals to his coworkers that they've been calling him the wrong name all along. James it is. [I appreciate the charm of this. Whenever I see a stack of "HELLO, MY NAME IS" adhesive name tags, want to (and occasionally do) write "Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die."] I do ask his other nurse for the night, (who says "He'll always be 'Eddie' to me") which of "James" or "Eddie" is the evil twin. She laughs as we both watch "Days of our Lives."

She gets a kick out of the fact that there's one doctor on the show who specializes in everything from triage to fertility and DNA to pediatric organ transplants. (Dr. Lexie is a former cop, who studied for, though may not have ever spent a day at med school.) My soap habit stretches back to my own time in the hospital with a ruptured appendix (Friday the 13th September 1985). Distracting me from my own pain were "Jeopardy!" in the afternoons, new episodes of "Fame" on the weekend, "The Wuzzles" cartoon (I did get mom to buy me the hybrid EleRoo stuffed toy a purple and orange striped half elephant/half kangaroo the morning I saw it) Rock Hudson is rapidly dying of AIDS on the newscasts (Oh God, did I have a blood transfusion?), and hey who's that guy in the pirate eyepatch stalking the blonde woman... 21 years later, "Days of our Lives" still gives me something to talk about with women.

Mom's new roommate just got married on Saturday. The scruffy looking groom wanders in to see his betrothed in bed #2. As he asks "hey, you got a snack yet?," I'm really hoping he's the groom. I flash back to the times we'd visit my bipolar Korean War vet uncle at Veterans Administration hospital at Fort Meade outside Sturgis. Disheveled men in a variety of official gowns and moth-eaten bathrobes would roam the halls bumming cigarettes or coffee machine funds or hitting on visitors and/or their wives and daughters with material from Bob Hope specials. Even before VCRs or DVD players, somehow M*A*S*H was always playing on a 9 inch black and white screen in every common room. The happy (well, in theory) couple is here on the same hospital floor because of the Sturgis motorcycle rally and a motorcycle collision.

We're told that once mom does head home (which we really aren't prepared for yet with moving of furniture or packing away clothing) she'll be on a colostomy bag for six months. Mom asks, "Won't be fun helping me change all these dressings and emptying colostomy bags?" "That’s why she has a loving husband," I respond. But not a loving son," counters dad."Get the older loving son to do all this first," I dare. "He lives farther away from her than you do." Yeah, why do you suppose that is?"

On the way out of the hospital, I notice the worn sign in the elevator that tells us that in the rare emergency situation that we are trapped inside, "PLEASE BE PATIENT." That's the direct opposite of our plan at the moment.

Sunday afternoon, August 6, 2006
"When you can't eat, you can't even drink water ... there's not much to do around here." (Answer: you should be busy getting better.) I don't know when these nurses sleep. (Answer : when you do.)

It is at the very least, highly disorienting to go through this. With dad going up at least twice a day, brother doing his own thing, and me generally at one shift a day (with dad), mom wonders why Oprah isn't on (Answer : It's Saturday) or did the mail come today? (Answer : It's Sunday).

While it feels like a new best friend (the tube going up her nose, that is), the nurses assure her (if not necessarily reassure her) that its the same one she's had since Wednesday.

I'm a listener by nature, and thus, an eavesdropper. I love the new TV series "Psych," about a cops son who was raised to notice every minute detail of a situation and starts calling in tips to solve murders he's only seen coverage of on TV. When they assume he's one of the robbers or kidnappers because "he knows too much," he pretends he's psychic. When it's just eavesdropping, and knowing the devil's in the details of handwriting, or noticing a limp etc. Thus at the hospital where I'm used to hearing thunks and beeps an whirs, "how about banana, no i think we're out of banana, you had banana? James, a new handsome male nurse who looks a bit like Shaquille O'Neal is outside the room next door, with a food cart. "We got raspberry, we got peach, we got lemon, we got key lime" ... I ask mom, "What kind of yogurt would you ... NOT like to have?" Brother, who brought up a wacky get well card with a frog on it and the caption "Feeling Green?" from his convenience store job has helpfully described to her how fantastic the pork and beans special is (at the smoke filled loud noisy casino/pub pool hall his bosses own in a strip mall). Mmmmmm pork. She'll not be having that (dare I guess ... ever again).

Erika, her German(?) nurse who gives the best hospital bed baths is working in other assigned rooms for now, but I did get her to come in today as she's been missed. I also suggested that the next time James is in and has her walking around the nurses station for physical therapy, she be taken to a scale. Hey, she's eating ice all day, the least they can do is boost her spirits with how much weight she may have lost by now. Erika has the day off tomorrow then has a day working on "The Tenth Floor." She hates having to work "The Tenth Floor," the recently renovated $8 million dollar hotel suite equivalent with rose but vases and grilled chicken and oil paintings for the guests who can afford the luxuries of a penthouse, and not just nurses, but apparently a grape peeling wait-staff. The head of the State Democratic party has told me even though you'd think as a millionaire's wife she'd enjoy "The Tenth Floor," she thinks it was a complete waste of money and it should have been spent on cross contamination efforts for the "middle class" and "poor" floors instead of 8,000 thread-count sheets and China cabinets.

Back at the nurses station, we may actually have an intern from "Grey's Anatomy." "You know, I was looking through the handbook and it says nothing about being a nurse while you are pregnant, it just says you should try to avoid becoming pregnant." I would hope you've learned how to do that by now, darling.

Now, this, is love. Mom doesn't remember where she is in the books she's checked out from the library and renewed several times, but never had the time to read. Dad's reading Armistead Maupin's "The Night Listener" to mom. (The new Robin Williams movie, we're not getting here that opened on Friday.) I'm off in the corner, "afternoon listening." It's just incredible fun for me knowing that dad has no idea what hes gotten himself into starting to read this. I have the text of the first chapter on my laptop and I'm secretly reading along. Let's see if he reads this sentence: "I left before anyone could see what a fraud I was. Or notice that the videocassette under my arm was called 'Dr. Jerkoff and Mr. Hard.'" Yes, yes, he actually did, although he at first mispronounced it as "Dr. Jekyll." He did, though skipped over the "antidelluvian." "Opper-ay-tic?" (Okaaaaaay.) Mom says as I'm leaving, and dad's headed out to the nurses station (as I unplug the laptop). "He's really not great at reading aloud." "Don't worry, I have the CD audiobook as read by the author at home." It's only 10 hours worth as a spoken word serial.

She says to bring a bud vase to house the silk rose I brought her on Thursday. It's currently sitting in its plastic wrapper in with one of several other live bouquets people have sent. I've added it to my "grocery" list of the audiobook, and cameraphone pictures of Pepper, the arthritic, ADD attention span, skunk colored Shi-Tzu to display for her from my laptop on my next visit.

Sunday noon, August 6, 2006
A local conservative (who's been heckling me on an AIDS human interest piece not long back and who routinely stalks me at community political events, while never confronting me in person or acknowledging me until later in his blog) says " I don't know whether what happened to her was the result of negligence on the doctor's part, or simply one of those bad things that sometimes happen to us through no particular fault of our own in a fallen world that exists under the curse of sin. Knowing whichever one it might be would bring her little comfort, I'm sure. But I know that God wants a much better life for her, you and me than we currently enjoy on this fallen world. And if we'll trust in Him to change our hearts and renounce doing things our way, He gives us hope for a painless, perfect life in the new Heaven and new Earth."

Why yes, he's praying for both mom and me, because who knows, Mom just may be there as punishment for what I write.

Saturday August 5, 2006
A brother-free visit. As soon as I slink into the dark room and see if Mom's awake, something starts beeping. I feel like I've tripped a laser beam alarms guarding the giant 80-pound diamond in one of those Tom Cruise spy movies, back when he was worth watching. It's just her oxygen monitor which seems to be multi-decibels, so yes, she is now awake. There are other alarms going off while we're there, including a CONDITION RED fire alarm one floor below us in the north east quadrant which sets off strobe lights in the hall, as well as a buzzer. It's contained after a few minutes of beeping.

There are other blips and beeps from the machines monitoring her new roommate, "a 'colored person' who's been bleeding heavily, though she should be getting out tomorrow." This is not the alto smoke alarm sound of mom's oxygen monitor, but a high tenor/soprano telegraph dit dit dit noise, either a rapid series of "O's" or "S's" without the interrupting letter. Thank you for noticing the sound of that from bed #2, says the nurse. We don't always hear some of these alarms. (Gee, I feel much better hearing that.)

I bring mom email wishes and an American Greetings floral get well E-card for which I assume has the sound turned off as I've hit "replay" on the downloaded web page on my laptop. (Oh goody, no it doesn't.) And best wishes, and regards given to me during the day to pass to her from a ladies' club friend who's heard through the grapevine of mom's condition.

Mom's best friend, Penny, has been up trying to convince her that "the tube up her nose is her "other best friend, because it's doing its best to get her better." This makes as much sense to us as trying to get a baby to eat telling him theres an airplane or a choo choo train coming straight toward their face to either swallow or allow to induce horrible rhinoplasty.

Thus far, the #1 response when I tell others of mom's condition has been (SURVEY SAYS!) "How can they possibly screw up a colonoscopy?"
#2, "God, your brother sounds like a complete asshole. At least she has you."
#3 "Give her my best wishes, tell her I'm praying for her."
#4 "At least your brother didn't tell her the last thing the guy who died of colon surgery complications had as his last meal."

Friday August 4, 2006
This afternoon dad and I are unable to escape as brother visits hospital room again ...

Today Brother Bear
A) goes on and on about his scars and bruises from HIS surgeries earlier in the year
B) make sure mom knew about where someone was from who died in a car accident
C) mentions a story about a friend of his who died 4 years ago ... after complications from colon surgery.

I ask dad on the elevator ride down ... WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH HIM?

I made mom wince in pain trying to hug her. She just "didn't expect it." "You didn't hurt me." She is obviously lying to protect my feelings. But that's what moms do.

We later figure out why mom needed her purse in the hospital, and why brother was kind enough to have brought it up to her. Because with limited mobility while reaching, tubes in several body parts, and an oxygen monitor on one hand, he needed her to write him a check because he's broke, and will need money this week as he's got free back stage passes to Sammy Hagar at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. One assumes they won't be performing malfunctioning colonoscopies there, that was more the style of the Rob Zombie concert he saw here just the week before.

Thursday, August 3, 2006
I haven't been yet today. It was hard to see her last night.

I skip visit opportunity #1. Mom is looking better, but still a worried mess. "Why did this have to happen to me," says dad.

I have now in 3-4 years seen dad weak and on tubes, brother weak and on tubes, and now mom. I think this might get mom to take my health (diabetes, depression, weight) more seriously. As the Russian Roulette chamber spins, I'm "next," in theory.

We are about to leave mom's room at 7:50 p.m., when my brother shows up at the hospital. (Having signed my ne'er-do-well nephew up for junior high school golf, which he'll need her help paying for ... which will take ne'er-neph out of town several days a week ... great hobby for a kid who doesn't like to A) read, B) study ... On the bright side, ne'er-neph will be forced to get a C+ in 4 courses ... wow, manageable goals ... almost).

A half hour into listening to my brother talk about golf, I head out to the nurse's station and asked if I can have one of those pain dosing buttons so i can administer myself a drip of codeine or vicodin.

I ask the nurses if mom could have a consult from "Dr. House," unless he's off sexually harassing his boss or doing vicodin himself. I put in a request for no nurses from "Grey's Academy" because I know they're all off having sex in the linen closets, and all of the doctors from "ER" are either proposing or in Darfur. One nurse tells me, "you know what I hate about 'ER' and 'Grey's Anatomy'? None of those 'doctors' and 'nurses' have time to be doing any of that stuff."

As we attempt to leave (again) the hospital phone rings for mom and my brother answers. Whomever it is asks, "How you doing?/How've you been?" He answers, "Oh not too bad, I've been recovering pretty well." (I whisper to Dad, about my brother ... "Hello. ITS NOT ABOUT YOU.") The person on the phone wants to hear "fine, I'll put you on with my mother" not "Oh, my blood pressure is pretty good and I've been getting in shape since I got out of the hospital."

The next day, I plan to go up and tell them the nurses, all that I know about hospitals comes from watching "Days of our Lives." "Can I please switch some DNA results, or babies, misdiagnose some people with cancer, or tell someone else that if they have children with the person they love the child will have a high risk for a horrible genetic syndrome, which cannot be named, or just generically skulk around with black gloves and syringes and eavesdrop and plan kidnappings"? "Sorry, no. We have to study a long time before we're allowed to do those things."

I do bring mother a big teddy bear, since I figure it's nice to have something thats not a tube or a button or a restraint when all you can do is try and push and work hard to regain lung pressure or sleep.

Mom's been telling everyone she can that I write pop culture commentary for the local weekly newspaper which comes out on Thursdays. She doesn't have the new issue. Well, that's okay, we've stepped down from 40 pages to 36 and my column as well as a bunch of photos didn't make the transition. But, I can recycle the stuff into later weeks. There will always be a "next" crappy cartoon movie coming out with animals acting as though they're in a David Mamet play.

Brother is there because he has to show mom ... his hair dyed beard and what skull hair he has left. and since they didn't have free lunch (for him, a Monday and Friday thing)... he has to tell her where he had lunch ... Much appreciated, no doubt, since she's on ice chips for a week (to ten days) until her digestive system heals.

The joke in pronouncing my last name is that "Heald" has two possible pronunciations (four, if someone thinks there's an R missing AKA "Herald" or "Hurled"). But we prefer "Healed" over "Held." Thus, when it's mistaken I tell people that It's always great to be "Healed," but sometimes you just wanna be "Held." Mom needs both.

Good news, my brother was stopped for not having a light working about the back license plate on his car. The cop lets him off with a warning because ... Hey, are you related to the guy who writes for the Rapid City Weekly News?" (See, I am good for something.) I tell dad he is not to try and use my name to get out of tickets. If the cop makes the association on his own, fine. But "Hey, do you know who I am (related to)?" I would advise the officer to deliver a warning shot into your trunk.

Wednesday, Noonish, August 2, 2006

Things didn't go well with your mother's colonoscopy. They're doing surgery on her at 3:30 today. I don't get to see her until they finally put her in a room, after problems with her breathing machines and the repair stitching of her intestinal wall is finished. We're been at the hospital since about 5 p.m. with a small dinner break at a nice "slow food" restaurant close by.