As in, I am afraid I will be spending Christmas confined to the hospital with a bunch of grouchy nurses and support personnel. Because progressing from a fingertip to ONE FARKING CENTIMETER in TWO WEEKS is NOT GOING TO CUT IT.
The NP tried to make a joke out of it and suggested I carry Charlie around the block a few times, sort of implying that my recent frenzy of baseboard cleaning, mopping, and stairs vacuuming wasn't enough to move things along. I did not laugh. I thought about all the mean things I wanted to say. And then I planned my fifteen dollar Starbuck's drive-thru order as I lay helplessly on my back like a turtle trapped beneath a fifteen pound baby and waited for her to help me sit up so I could take a deep breath.
And then I put my clothes back on and called Ryan so I could spread the warmth and cheer of the holiday season with someone legally bound by God and the State of Texas to love me until I die. When I told him through gritted teeth about my "progress" he said "but I brought my camera to work today, just in case!" Then he suggested I go get something special to eat on the way to work. He gets me.
We're supposed to talk about "our" options at my next appointment, which is on Wednesday. The only options I want to be talking about on Wednesday involve which chair IN MY OWN LIVING ROOM is the most comfortable for nursing. And what kind of wine would I like with dinner.