Off leash, still in the doghouse

I arrived at the hospital on Wednesday. On Wednesday night when I came to this pleasant room, I had three tubes attached to me - an IV for fluids and nutrients, an epidural line in my spine for pain management, and a Foley catheter to my bladder.

By Thursday night, I could drink clear fluids. Encouraged to walk the halls, I wheeled my dancing partner - my IV stand - along with me. I successfully met  the goals and objectives that were set for me - to fart and poop.

By Friday, I could eat solids and my IV was removed, but the epidural remained, plugged into the wall when in use and beeping "battery low" warnings as I wandered the halls.

This morning the epidural went away. All that remained was the Foley - a white vinyl bag about the size of a spring-time purse, that I dangled  from my wrist while walking up and down the linoleum halls. Then, it too went away.

Now I sit in my hospital room - off the leash. I'm wearing clean pajamas I brought from home. When the epidural went away, so did any pain medication. I'm slowly becoming aware of my incision, a tender, crimped feeling below. I think the plan is to give me oral pain medication eventually - but so far I haven't seen it.

Will I go home, or spend another night here? No one knows anything yet.

Meanwhile, I sit here, in the ward that is sometimes quiet, sometimes lazy, and other times bustling with action and characters. From behind my curtain, I observe some of these characters. I sometimes get to peek out at them, or sometimes, they peek in at me.