twenty-four hours

I slept for fourteen dreamless hours. When I woke up, Anne was in the living room with our dogs. They were all happy to see me when I staggered out of our bedroom.

We had as close to a normal day as we could expect, a nice and boring day where nothing happened, and we didn’t have to go to the emergency room for any reason. I know we only had to go twice, but it feels like it was so much more than that.

At the end of the day, Anne went to sleep a little bit before I did. I had that kind of fatigue where your body is tired but your mind isn’t ready to shut up and go to sleep, so I stayed up and watched two episodes of American Gods, and then the last three episodes of Bojack Horseman’s second season. I got into bed around 1am, and didn’t realize until I was pulling up the sheets that part of me had been holding my breath, expecting something bad to happen.

I slept for twelve hours. When I woke up, I felt like I’d stayed in bed a little too long, but at least I was caught up on sleep. Anne was eating lunch with our son, Nolan.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her.

“How are you?” She said.

“I asked you first.”

“I’m fine. My incisions are a little sore, but I’m really okay.”

“That’s great,” I said, “and I feel like I’m finally caught up on sleep.”

“High-five!”

“Totally.”

I keep feeling these little bits of tension release, bits of lingering worry that I didn’t know were there until they were gone. We’ve made it through the 24 hours or so after surgery without any complication, and our lives are getting back to normal. The dogs can sense it, too, and are starting to ask for walkies. For the first time in what feels like a month but is only five days, I feel like I can oblige them.