It's now been two full weeks since that offending little piece of tissue was removed and my little girl is still in the hospital. She had to have another surgical procedure on Friday, round two of ridding her body of the infectious gunk that is so firmly lodged in her gut. So far, she seems to be responding well, and we'll know more tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe she'll even get to come home.
When we got home from San Francisco last Sunday night, I stayed up until 2 a.m. completing a freelance job that had to be in by 8:30 that Monday morning. After I mailed it off, I stared at my bedroom ceiling for another hour fretting about everything on my long to-do list, from unpacking to catching up on work to Full Mommy reviews to weeding my overgrown flower beds.
Needless to say, another week has evaporated and I've done almost none of those things that were so important they kept me up that night. In the hospital, I have wireless but I don't have any ability to concentrate. If it isn't the worry (are 5 CT scans too many for a 40-pound, 6-year-old child? How much longer can this possibly go on?), it's the endless Disney Channel loop, or the nurse coming in or out, or the entreaties to take just one more sip of Gatorade.
These days, more than ever, I feel like every minute spent doing one critical task is a minute stolen from some other equally critical task. Time playing with Opie (an absolute trouper during this whole ordeal, I must note) is time away from Jo's bedside. Fifteen minutes answering work e-mail is 15 minutes not finding something nutritious for us all to eat. A half-hour sleeping is a half-hour not blogging (aka taking time for myself).
This has been the longest and shortest month of my life. Wake me when it's over.