So, Pete had surgery Tuesday morning. When they went to get his stone, it went back up into his kidney.
The anesthesia made him really sick, and kind of made him trip out, I think. I visited him early in the afternoon, and he was just staring at the wall, all hunched over. Me: Pete, how are you doing? Pete: I feel weird. Me: Are you nauseous? Are you in pain? Pete: I feel weird. Me: Can I help you out somehow? Pete: I feel weird.
Quite the productive conversation.
Later he felt better. And now he knows to never do drugs.
Pete will probably feel like crap again today, because he had to go in and get his kidney blasted with sound waves to break up the stone this morning.
When the nurse, named "Loopy" (no joke) was checking Pete in, she asked if we had a living will. I said, "No, but I know what to do if something goes wrong," and made the slit-your-neck motion. Loopy said, "I told my husband he wasn't allowed to die, that I'd keep him around somehow." I'm all, "Like stuff his dead body?" Loopy: I had four little kids. I needed help. Me: "Kids, if you don't behave, you'll have to go sit on Dead Dad."
I really hope this is the last of it. Going to the hospital over and over is getting a little old.
Oh, and if anyone has any money they don't need, feel free to send it my way. Because dang.