Actually, it WAS fairly routine. I just didn't know it was going to take over 4 hours. So I didn't take food. Or enough money to get the car out of the parking deck. Or any money at all, for that matter. We got finished at the hospital just in time to join 4,113,510 other cars in the daily party that is known as Atlanta Rush Hour. Hurricane Isaac was the featured act.
And I pinched my hand putting her wheelchair back in the car, resulting in a cool-looking blood blister. I don't know whether to pop it or wear it proudly as a symbol of my sacrifice. Or just keep picking at it. Or take a picture of it and post it on my blog. Just kidding.
And I got my hopes all up when I was texting my misery (minus the blood blister, only because it hadn't happened yet) to Hubby, and he responded with a couple of texts referencing both going out to dinner and margaritas. My eyes were dancing, a little bit at the prospect of a fishbowl-sized margarita, but mostly at the fact that the waiter brings a basket of warm tortilla chips to the table even before we are seated.
But for some strange reason, when I FINALLY got home and Hubby offered to go get something to eat, the words that came out of my mouth were, "Just go get me a salad somewhere."
Mother-in-law's surgery is this Friday, and I hope after that this whole saga will be over. I'll post later about what it entails (minus any gory details), but tonight I'm too pooped.
It's a good thing I retired. Otherwise I would have had to quit.