The porch is clean, the kitchen is scrubbed, the living room has been transformed into a board game playing, jigsaw puzzle solving, keyboard practising, couch resting paradise. Wren and I have watched a double-installment of our TV drama, finishing it off, so that we are prepared to begin something new tomorrow when the lady of the house returns.

Today at RIO was family day for Tanja–a pre-release protocol whereby a responsible family member shadows the PT, OT and RT so as to be prepared to support the patient on return. Our experience was a bit of a let down as all three therapists reported that there was little they could show me because Tanja is essentially doing everything. There are areas where she needs to improve–strength needs to increase, range of motion could be improved–but she doesn’t really need spotting or assistance. I will stand by to hype her moves and to mop her brow, nonetheless.

When I arrived at her bedside this morning Tanja was excited to tell me something.

“I learned a new term today,” she said. “I overheard to nurses talking–you know they refer to everybody by room number. And one nurse said, ‘5’s wife is gonna be late today. Can you fork him for me?’ She meant, you know, feed him breakfast.”

“That’s such a good term,” I said.

“I know,” Tanja said. “And the other nurse was like, ‘I’ve never forked him.’ ‘Oh, he’s easy. No problem.’”

So at the afternoon family meeting, when a representative of all the disciplines on the team–medicine, OT, PT, RT and social work–gather to talk about progress and, in this case, discharge, the subject of Tanja’s tremendous progress was front and center.

PT announced that she was crushing it. OT piled on. It was like going to school conferenes for a gifted child; we just sat there collecting praise. And finally the physician weighed in.

“Usually discharge meetings are full of instructions for the family caregiver,” she said, addressing me. “But honestly, Tanja is in very good shape to lead her own recovery.”

“Well,” I said, “She’ll still need me to fork her from time to time. . . Cuz she still can’t use a knife.”

Anyhoo, there’s lots of work to be done–by Tanja–but we are feeling so lucky.

“When I think back to those days in the ICU,” Tanja said this afternoon, “I just wonder, why the hell was I so upbeat?”

It was strange to hear her ask that because it was what I was asking myself at the time. When I came into the ICU, the day after her surgery, and she could barely budge her finger tips, and she made her baby analogy, I thought, “That’s insane. Let’s go with it.”

But the baby analogy was a good call in the moment. And more and more I’m coming to understand that the moment is all there ever is.

Some exciting bookkeeping notes:

First, I’ve written all these posts but only today did I finally read one, only to discover that they are all automatically labeled with the day and date, so my giving them the day and date as the title is a little bit the opposite of tech savvy. Many thanks to you all for having the kindness to refrain from pointing this out.

Second–this is huge–with Tanja coming home we recognize that we may need some support–with things like meals, gardening, getting Wren home from school and so foth– and all sorts of kind people have offered help, so we’re launching a website to make it easy. I’ll post details here tomorrow. No presh, obviously, but they say it takes a village and you guys are the best villagers I know 🙂

Lastly, here’s a tune Tanja loves. She is convinced she discovered it. Maybe she did. It might be a tiny bit sad for the occasion, but think of it as a bit of a love song for the wonderful people of RIO.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZcHvFKFnKk