A Hell of an Imposition.

"This is a hell of an imposition," Rick said as he got out of bed this morning. "Cancer is a hell of an imposition."
I could not agree more.
We are in the pre-op area of Swedish, waiting, waiting, waiting. Rick's blood has been taken, and his EKG has been faxed over from our clinic on the Island. Now we wait.
When I took my netbook out, the nurse who was doing the intake on Rick asked, "Is that a computer?" Well, yeah, it is, sorta. A teeny, tiny limited use computer. The only computer I have at the moment.
It keeps flicking from this blog page to the desktop for some reason. "Dammit," I say.
"That's the kind of computer talk I'm familiar with," Rick says.
He is all decked out in hospital garb - jammy bottoms, open back gown, and then a robe to to it off. All in all quite decent, the height of hospital haute couture.
Nearby a small child is crying and screaming. Children have not learned how to "be brave" and be quiet and stoic while their bodies are being intruded upon.
It reminds Rick of getting shots before going overseas when his dad was in the military. Children were running down the hall screaming; the medical techs would slap you and tell you to shut up.
Gosh, sometimes I don't get nostalgic at all for the 1950s. He says it was much nicer when they went off base to a family doctor. Not the hysterical mob scene.
Ten after two. Surgery is scheduled for three. we wait. I'll add more later.

Later that same evening: The Dead Tumor Sketch
Greetings from room 218 SW, at Swedish Hospital in Seattle. I'll spare you the drama: the surgery went very well. Dr. Lilly, the urologist, said he got all of the tumor, and managed to do it without perforating the wall of the bladder, which would have been bad. He also took some biopsies of other parts of the bladder to see if anything else is hiding out there. He's coming by in the morning to see Rick, and if all is well Rick may go home tomorrow. No word at this time on malignancy or not. Stay tuned.
All we know is that the tumor is gone, dead, perished, gone to join the heavenly choir eternal. It is an un-tumor. It is no more. It is bleeding deceased
Rick is joyfully eating fish and chips, a salad, a Pepsi, and coffee. Joyfully because it's the first food he's had for 24 hours. I am having trail mix I purchased on the way in to the hospital.
It has been a long day. We're going to kick back and watch "Bones" on the hospital TV now. All is as well with Rick as it could be, he's having dinner and he's on pain meds. Life is good.