How am I?

 I still feel unreal as if this is a bad dream, a preparation for the future but not now. Thoughts of Rob keep invading my head. Good ones and not so good ones… and I will not deify him. Most of the time but not all the time, he was easy to live with. I’m sure he’d say the same of me. Once upon a time, I asked him why he loved me and he said because you are never boring. I took that as a great compliment. 

Recently, we were on a plane together and we both liked aisle seats so we sat across from each other. I was watching some stupid comedy and laughed outloud and then realized where I was and covered my mouth. Rob looked over at me. Later, he told me that, when I laughed, he was overcome with love for me. He thought that’s my wife. I loved him for telling me. So many memories. We had a good life together on the whole. And now his ashes are in a cylinder and I hate it… fuck, fuck, fuck… There is a line in a poem by Irish writer, Paula Meehan - “I’d like to leave you in love’s blindness… never mentions how I stumble into the day,/ fucked up, penniless, on the verge of whining/ at my lot.” 

I feel fragile. Of course, I do. I am managing to clean up papers, sort through his pills and ointments - he had a remedy for every small and large ailment - and take care of legalities. The car is now just my car. I hate that I am erasing him, tidying up his space… 

I cannot bear the pain...

 

As Rob lay in his hospital bed, he gave many signs that he knew his family were standing guard. He squeezed his sons' hands, he pulled at his daughter's hair, and one morning when he arrived in Albi, free of needles and tubes, he reached his arm up, drew Yvonne's face to his and kissed her on the lips. 

This poem is by the Canadian poet, Alden Nolan, from a small town in New Brunswick, like Rob:

This is What I Wanted to Sign Off With

You know what I’m
like when I`m sick: I’d sooner
curse than cry. And people don’t often
know what they’re saying in the end.
Or I could die in my sleep.

So I’ll say it now. Here it is.
Don’t pay any attention
if I don’t get it right
when it is for real. Blame that
on terror and pain
or the stuff they’re shooting
into my veins. This is what I wanted to
sign off with. Bend
closer, listen, I love you.

Au revoir, my love

Brendan will read this for me at the Crematorium. I want to go but I cannot. The last month and a half have worn me down. I would dissolve and I selfishly do not want to share my grief for this man with whom I've shared around 55 years, a man who drove me round the bend and yet is the love of my life, a sound man. 

https://vimeo.com/836608420/69bdf09120

Yesterday/All my troubles seemed so far away

Yesterday, Brendan, Michael, Gillian and I were told to wait in the family room while two nurses removed Rob's respirator - a clear tube leading to his lungs with some sort of bulbous attachment deep down his throat. We waited and waited and waited some more. Finally the nurse came for us and we followed her into Rob's room. He was in a near sitting position,  mouth open, his chest blessedly moving in and out! "He has to cough now," one nurse said. We all chanted "Cough, Rob. Cough" and showed him how.  Finally, finally, he coughed loud and clear. We applauded! In the evening, we toasted him with champagne. 

The pneumonia and sepsis have delayed Rob's healing. I am scared. He most often has a vacant look on his face. His eyes look through me. One day at a time. 

June 5, 2023

 I am finding it more and more difficult to write about Rob's trauma. At the end of May, he was sitting in a chair - the first time since his accident - and was beginning to communicate his discomfort and desire. I threw a sponge ball at him and he caught it and threw it back to me at least a dozen times with a pure Rob distainful expression. "Why are we playing this childish game?" 

And then, at the beginning of June, the hospital called. They had taken Rob to intensive care as he was having difficulty breathing. He had a pulmonary infection and his blood pressure was low. When I went in the next day, they explained that they had induced a coma and inserted a respirator, a food tube up his nose, and a number of thin clear tubes disappearing under the sheet. The doctor said Rob had pneumonia that led to sepsis. He looked frozen, grey, almost dead. The following day, he had more colour and the doctor said that he was responding well to the antibiotics. They were slowly bringing him out of the coma and reducing the level of the respirator to make sure he could breathe without it. He was. 

Bill told me that we sensibly could have a "guarded optimism" that Rob would return "whole". We cling to this but it is becoming more and more unlikely. 

Yesterday, we were told that the longer the respirator aided Rob's breathing, the less likely he would be able to breathe on his own, and the longer it would take him to recover: it must be removed as soon as possible. There are two possible outcomes. First, ideally, he would be able to breathe and return to the rehabilitation floor. They noted this is unlikely and today they added that he could catch pneumonia again. Second, his breathing would be too slow to support himself. They'd do everything to ease the pain but would not resusitate. He is too old. 

Michael is with me, Brendan flew in two days ago, and Gill arrived last night with Derek and Wilder. Tonight Jane and Sebastian fly in.

💕 

Preoccupied

Rob is trying to communicate though not verbally. Since, I wrote the last report, the hospital has him sitting, for a number of hours, in an upright padded chair and although it was good to see this, he was obviously hating it as he kept sliding down the seat and kept grabbing at the binding holding him in (around his crotch). When Michael and I returned yesterday, he was sitting up in a much more comfortable chair with an elevated leg rest (I was impressed) but after an hour, he kept patting the bed as if he wanted to lie down. He also kept pulling at his moustache as it was growing into his mouth as if to tell us that he needed a trim. 

No more mention has been made of inserting a valve into his stomach. I have seen him eat a whole container of apple sauce and some other liquid-gel stuff but refuse caramel pudding. I think he is simply showing what he prefers. (I am going to ask if we can bring him some food, like a pureed chicken soup). We also had a visit from the hospital’s microbiologist who requested that we wear a plastic apron and gloves when visiting to make sure that we are not carrying any bacteria that Rob couldn’t fight it at this time… She also said no to flowers or potted plants. 

Michael and I are a little frustrated as we don’t know which neurologist is caring for him. We have had no updates, no mention of the results of the scan and such. We did try yesterday to arrange a consultation and did speak to a neurologist who Rob has visited in the past, but he said that his colleague is looking after Rob. (And did we ask for a name? NO!) He did say that they are worried as Rob is sleeping so much. (I thought this was the way to heal the brain.) I had a restless night, couldn’t sleep, worrying about how to be kept up to date and such and so I asked a friend Eleyna who calls herself a hand-holder for English-speaking people having to navigate the French medical and legal system to help us. (I call her a cultural attaché.) Hopefully, we will learn more in the next few days. ❤️

Ups and Downs

I had one happy day and one kiss that will have to last a week as the last two days have not been good. Rob had a potassium deficiency so the nurses put him on a drip and fucking hell, restrained his hands once again, forcing him  to lie on his back, unable to raise his arms. They promised to take off the restraints once the potassium drip was finished. Today, when I went in, he had a glucose drip and again his hands were tied (much softer bindings than the ones in Casablanca that were bruising his wrists.) Michael and I were told that we could remove the restraints when we are present and can watch over him so yesterday, I stayed six hours with a short break for a sandwich and cigarette. Today Michael and I are going to try a split shift so we can cover more hours.  

Michael had the doctor write down Rob's situation. “Subdural hematoma (around the brain). Hemorrhagic bruising intraparentrymatous (in the brain).” This is disrupting the connection of synapses which is causing the involuntary grabbing and such. As the blood moves out of the brain, the control will return.

More sobering still is that the flesh is literally hanging off Rob’s bones. (His arms and legs look like parchment and so I’ve been rubbing moisturising cream into them.) He has had little to eat in over a month and the doctor wants permission to put a tub directly into Rob’s stomach and feed him through it. I am despairing because I imagine that he will be tied down for the duration. The problem is that he cannot swallow soft food well and we are not allowed to give him water as it may go into his lungs.

Bev caught Bill, boarding a plane for home, and asked for his advice: "Well it’s a tough situation… because if he can’t swallow properly yet he could aspirate and then develop pneumonia which would be dangerous. If he isn’t getting adequate nutrition I can see the need for the stomach tube but pulling on it would be a disaster also. Oh boy… between a rock and a hard place. It’s a waiting game for his brain to recover yet not have him disturbed while healing. I don’t have an easy answer… "

I do know that Rob's recovery will take months and we will experience many ups and downs but sometimes the swinging makes me dizzy. Without a voice, during his recovery, it’s as if Rob is a child of mine: I hate to see him suffer so I try my best to ease the way for him but sometimes this is impossible.

"And then he kissed me"

Yesterday, when we arrived, Rob was lying on his side! I leaned over to say hello and he raised his arm, wrapped it around my head, pulled me down and kissed me on the lips!

During our visit, he kept squeezing my hand. He stroked Michael's arm, and touched his and then Michael's moustache. Still, he was restless and so Michael played his music. When John Prine's "Long Monday" came on, and Prine sang

Soul to soul
Heart to heart
And cheek to cheek
Come on baby
Give me a kiss
That'll last all week

I touched my lips. (I am still overwhelmed by the kiss.) There were other small signs that Rob was trying to communicate. He pulled at his pillow that was at an uncomfortable angle and at the neck of his hospital gown. (He did this in Casablanca too.) I am not sure if he's trying to say that he wants out of the hospital or, most likely, that he hates wearing clothes in bed. When he kept pushing his hospital bracelet down his wrist, the nurse cut it off and put it on his ankle. (She was amused that Rob then tried to reach down to his ankle.)

Today, Michael has left, with his computer, to try and work by Rob's side. I'm staying home to catch up on paperwork. Tomorrow I will spend the day with Rob. (I am hoping for another kiss.) 

May 25, 2023, Castelnau de Montmiral, France!

 I am overwhelmed. Michael says that the French air ambulance doctor and nurse marched into the Casablanca hospital on the 23rd of May at 11:20 am, went directly to Rob's room, untied his hands, removed all tubes, transferred him onto a gurney, into an ambulance and with lights flashing and siren howling drove directly to Casablanca airport and onto the tarmac. During the flight, the doctor asked Michael about Rob, why he was in Morocco, what he had done for a living, and such. An ambulance met them in Toulouse and again with lights and siren, drove directly to Albi Central Hospital. Luckily I was in the lobby when they entered. Once they had settled Rob into his room, the ambulance doctor spoke to Michael and me about Rob's condition and soon after, the neurologist checked Rob and spoke to us too. We received more information than we had in a month in Casablanca. 

Michael and I visited the next day. Rob pulled at the collar of my blouse as if drawing me closer and it would be wonderful to think he knows me but I’m not sure as he is agitated and pulling on everything. (Is it any wonder after two ambulances and a four hour plane ride yesterday?) On a happy note, he is does not have his hands tied to the sides of his bed. He does not have oxygen tubes up his nose. He does not have electrodes stuck to his chest. Nor is he wearing support hose. He doesn’t even have a catheter. (When I asked the doctor about this, she said he didn’t like it.) After a few hours in his room, we felt such relief. The hospital staff have compassion for my poor confused guy. In Morocco, they had little. 

I am so happy to be home. 

May 20, 2023

 If I weren't so weary, I'd be dancing jigs. Rob is leaving Casablanca on Tuesday, May 23rd at 11 am by air ambulance and taken to Albi CHU. Michael will be flying with him. I will leave the day before and bringing his heavy suitcase with me. A friend will pick me up at the airport. 

I am curious about how a French hospital or rehabilitation centre will differ from the two we've visited in Morocco. I am curious about Rob's reaction to the change. I hope he is given more mobility and that he heals quickly. 

May 18, 2023

I have lost track of the days. I do have the occasional meltdown but I’m alright. Michael arrives this evening. I have not contacted the Canadian Embassy (though the tour company did) because, although Rob is a Canadian, we live in France. And what could they do? I think we are nearly at the end of our Moroccan adventure. Too bad our energy and emotions haven’t made us enthusiastic about exploring the largest financial centre and second largest port in north Africa. Brendan and I did visit Rick’s Cafe twice and found this tourist attraction (the decor a near match for the one in Casablanca, the movie) and the music a greater soother for our frayed nerves.  

I think after today, I will stop the daily report because there’s not much to report other than my frustration with the hospital. I do hope that the French rehabilitation centres are kinder and cleaner than the ones here. Yesterday, I was asked to leave the room when the nurses changed Rob’s bed. When I returned at the end, one nurse was spraying some disinfectant to the top of Rob’s sheet. (He hates the smell of ammonia or any household cleaning product so I don’t use them when he’s at home.) Rob pursued his lips in annoyance I’d say and then stared straight ahead and refused to look at me when I said his name. The only good aspect of this is that I could see Rob is still there although unable to say anything.

I hope our exit won’t take much longer. I’ll only write again when we know the air ambulance is booked and we’re on our way home.

May 17, 2023

 Nothing unusual happened last night. I didn’t ask if I was allowed but fed Rob yogurt and didn't force the watery soup into his mouth. My act of rebellion for the day.

Today at noon, Rob was slightly agitated but still his eyes were clear and he kept staring at me. I was surprised and pleased to meet the neurosurgeon who came into the room. He asked how I found Rob and I replied "sad". He said this is normal: he's been through a lot. He said that the cat scan done that morning showed that Rob was around 19% healed - a good advance - and it would probably take his brain six to nine months to recover. He agreed that a rehabilition centre would be ideal but another 2 or 3 days in the hospital could be useful. Brendan also heard from the insurance agent working on Rob's case and he, in turn, is working with an ambulance company outside of Bordeaux to find a facility for Rob. Brendan will hear from him this afternoon or tomorrow. 

I am once again feeling hopeful.

May 16, 2023

 

Picture taken this morning.

Brendan and I are fuming (as are Gill and Michael). The neurosurgeon in Toulouse (after 4 fucking days) said Rob does not need a hospital: he needs a rehabilition centre. So we were thrown off schedule once again and the insurance company has started afresh trying to find a rehabilitation facility. (How the hell does the good doctor know what Rob needs when he hasn't seen him? Bill says that he probably read the notes from the hospital in Casablanca but even he is a bit miffed when I tell him that Rob is still hooked to various tubes and still cannot communicate. 

My visits yesterday are a blur. Was it afternoon or evening, when five nurses came into Rob's room and pointed to the hand-binds and said I was not to remove them. I yelled that they were cruel or some such thing and, when I am with him, I make sure that he doesn't pull his tubes out and I always tell them when I am leaving. They didn't understand. When they left the room, I cried. One nurse returned and tried to touch me and I backed away from her. In reconciliation, she removed one band shaking her finger at me emphasizing that he must not touch the tubes on the other hand. (Who am I? A child?)

During the evening visit, a young male nurse who speaks a bit of English came in and asked me about trimming Rob's moustache and beard. I told him to trim the moustache to Rob's lip line and leave the beard because I prefer a full beard. (Rob is going to kill me as he prefers his goatee.) He asked if he should trim Rob's hair and I said no. I like men with ponytails. (Rob doesn't but he can get a decent haircut when his brain has healed.)

Today

I'm late at posting this so I'll add a note about my morning visit. Rob is much the same, slept through the first part of my visit and then woke. I spoon-fed him some gruel and thought of Elizabeth who could have made him something gently spiced and interesting. Towards the end of my visit, I called a nurse as he seemed agitated. She suggested I go downstairs and see Doctor Laura who I asked if she thought Rob needed a hospital or a rehabilition centre and she said "rehabilitation" although she would ask the neurosurgeon to have a look at him tomorrow morning. 

I mentioned the hand restrainers and she said several nights ago, when I left, Rob had pulled out all his tubes and could have injured himself. I said that I told the nurses that I was leaving but, apparently, in the two minutes it took one to get to Rob, he had created havoc. (I must say that I'm kind of proud of him. Who would like to be tied down with no way to scratch say an itchy nose.) She did bend a little and said that his hand could be untied for my visits but I must call and wait for a nurse before I leave the room. A small victory.

Sorry about going on and on about this: I suppose it gives me something to rant about and distract me from his helplessness and my own. 

Oops, I forgot to mention that Michael is flying to London tomorrow evening and probably staying the night and then flying either to Casablanca or Toulouse. The way it’s going, it will most likely be Casablanca. Sigh. 

May 15, 2023

 How long has this been going on? It's been 3 weeks, one day since Rob's accident. I have been here 18 days. Brendan arrived two days before me and now is doing the work to get Rob home from London. Too long!

During my noon visit to Rob, he was distant and unfocused. They had tied both hands again. His moustache was embedded with white globs of food. I played his music and when he dozed, I read. I imagine there will be many days like this.

During my evening visit, Rob was agitated. He tried to get his hospital gown off. When I untied one handcuff and managed to get one arm free, he tugged at the other side so I removed that as best I could but it was difficult with all the attached tubes. Guessing he was too hot, I opened the window. So he is managing to communicate. He kept staring at me as if to tell me something and trying to clear his throat as if trying to speak (?) but I cannot understand what he wants from me.  Again, I played his music.

May 14, 2023

Sigh. It's Sunday and still no news about the flight to France (that was supposed to happen today) although Brendan and I tried our damnest yesterday to contact people who might help us secure him a bed in Toulouse. If I understand correctly, this is now the hitch to our leaving. (Sunday was the first day a plane was available. I wonder when is the next possible day.)  

Rob, wasn’t as lively as the day before yesterday. When I arrived at noon, he seemed agitated but calmed a little when I untied one arm and talked to him. I played his music. He drank water from a big bottle that I held and he grasped and tilted to his mouth. I brushed his teeth. (I wonder if French hospitals take more care with personal hygiene.) Time moves slowly. As much as I hate hospitals, I don't want to leave him until the visiting hour is up. 

In the evening, I took a taxi to and from the hospital.

I am angry. Some person has once again tied both Rob's hands to the side of the bed and he is agitated. Truly, it is only necessary to tie one hand and even then, as Brendan questioned, why can't they simply cover the electrodes so he cannot puill them off? I untied one gauze strip from the side of the bed and then, in an act of defiance (quite unlike me, believe it or not), I untied the armband that held it. I called the kindest nurse and explained (in French) that I was bad and had removed the band because I cannot bear to see him tied when he has so little freedom to move and stretch. Every time, I remove that damn handcuff, he stretches his arm numerous time above his head. He feels the oxygen tubes in his nose. He feels the stubble on his cheeks. He is able to tilt the water bottle to his mouth. 

I would like to know what he's thinking, what he's capable of doing, and what happens step by step as the brain heals itself. In brief, when will Rob regain his freedom.

May 13, 2023

 May 13, 2003 

I still do not have confirmation that our departure day is tomorrow. Needless to say (though I'll say it anyway), I am angry, frustrated, anxious and there's not a damn thing that I can do about it. 

I went in yesterday and Rob was wide awake. They had moved him into a larger room with chairs and a sofa. The nurse who knows I hate his arms tied, untied them for the length of my visit and let me tell you, there is nothing weak about Rob's arms. He tore off the electrodes from his chest and the oxygen tube up his nose. I had a hard time trying to stop him and putting them back in place, apologizing all the while to him. When I held a water bottle to his mouth, he took it off me and tilted the bottle to his lips and drank. I cannot imagine how he feels. Most likely, he is more frusrated than I am. As if trying to tell me something, he squeezed my hand tight and pinched all around my face. (There’s life in the old guy yet.) 

Mohammed, a security guard from the hotel walked me to the hospital in the evening and waited an hour for me. 

Rob's eyes grow more focused, more intelligent every time I visit. His hands were still tied so I removed the tie on the hand that was bandaged protecting a needle leading to a vein. He didn't once try to remove electrodes or tubes and so I asked the nurse if she could leave that one hand free. I think she agreed. (Language is difficult. Everyone speaks Arabic, a great number also speak French, and a tiny number speak English. I am so missing Brendan.) This evening, I played Jesse Winchester, a folk singer whose soft voice and tender lyrics seemed to soothe Rob. I hated leaving him.

Magnetism

(After Sonnet 116)

   Pull between earth and moon, or chemistry,
   carries the swallow home from Africa
   to perch again on his remembered tree,
   the weeping birch by the pond. A star
   will guide his mate home in a week, perhaps,
   to the old nest in the barn, remade, mould
   of spittle and pond-sludge snug in its cusp
   as the new year in the mud-cup of the old.
   Loss broke the swan on the river when winter
   stole his mate while he wasn't looking. Believing,
   he waited, rebuilt the nest, all summer
   holding their stretch of river, raging, grieving.

      So would I wait for you, were we put apart.
      Mind, magnetism, hunger of the heart.

(Gillian Clarke)Sent to me from David Reid

May 12, 2023

 Another day has passed and still no definite date for departure although the insurance company say that it looks like Sunday. They are in the process of finalizing arrangements with CHU In Toulouse, but I am afraid to hope because every time I have, I've been disappointed.

This morning Brendan left to catch a train to the airport and a flight to London. He has missed Jane (who he will miss seeing by hours as she has to catch a flight to Mexico for work) and Seb beyond words so I am happy for him but I have to admit, a little sad for me. He has been amazing in so many ways - Bev calls him "a saint" -  while I have been an emotional mess. He communicates, in French, with the hospital staff and has taken care of all interaction between the insurance company and the hospital and more. (He has promised to continue from afar.) I feel vulnerable, without him, even walking to the hospital is a little scary as it's not in a safe area. (Later a security person at the hotel told me not to carry anything valuable on my person as I am easy target.) 

Rob remains much the same, and slept through both of my visits. Bill reassures me that this is normal, that his brain is healing itself. I take comfort in this and hope, amid his snores, that he is receiving some solace through the music I play in his ear and my chatter.

Long ago a work colleague told me she believed that life is hell, that we are literally in hell and that's why life is constantly throwing obstacles our way. I did a google search on quotes about hell and found one by Milton: “Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.”

Please let there be light today! (And yes, I know that once we get Rob to France, there will be a whole new set of obstacles but hopefully hopefully hopefully they will be easier to bear. 

May 11, 2023

 I feel as if I am on an emotional rollercoaster and I'm taking you on the ride. Yesterday Rob seemed foggier. He looked at us but did not respond - not even to music which is worrisome. The high and the low was the earliest that they can transport him (hopefully us) is Sunday and I was hoping for tomorrow at the latest. The high is the repatriation team is at work. 

At the end of the day, we still hadn't heard if it's a go for Sunday or not.

May 10, 2023 in Morocco

 Yesterday was a good day. Rob looks healthier every day that passes but we have yet to see him move more than his head and limbs. One sweet nurse unties his hands when I am there because she knows I hate it, and she asked Brendan what music he's playing for Rob and looked it up on her iPhone so she could play it for him too.

Our consultation with the good doctor was short. Rob's aneurysm is not a problem and he is safe to fly.  The report will be sent to the insurance company within the hour.  A few hours later, Brendan confirmed with an agent there that they had received it. Yes. They were waiting for confirmation from their medical team and the repatriation were already busy organizing Rob's airlift. 

Both Brendan and I are excited but cannot celebrate until we hear all is in place and given a time and date for Rob's flight. I think but I am not sure that I can fly with him. The agent said it could be as soon as today or tomorrow.  And so we wait.

May 9, 2023 in Morocco

Yesterday was bleak. Brendan and I arrived to find Rob's hands, once again, tied to each side of the bed and oxygen tubes up his nose. He slept through most of our visit (even when Brendan trimmed his moustache). 

Our consultation with the doctor upset me further. The neurosurgeon wants to do yet another specialized test to confirm that Rob is okay to fly and if not, the coil operation would have to be done in Morocco and could take some time to arrange. My heart sunk. 

When we returned in the evening, the nurses had moved Rob from his light-filled room to a darker smaller cell. He was still tied and plugged. We talked to him, massaged his hands and feet, and played music as he drifted in and out of sleep. The one bright instance was when he squeezed my hand so hard, it hurt. 

As we left, we were told that either the test or the analysis of the test (Brendan didn't quite understand her French) would happen in an hour. We will hear the result today at noon. Hopefully. 

The above is the update that I send my sisters everyday and copy and paste on my blog but here I will add a little more. We waited over an hour for our consultation. Below is the scene that I discreetly photographed with my phone and, if I could have moved to a better vantage point, you would see how many more were waiting. I cried with frustration - literally - after the meeting and tripped on my pants and fell outside the hospital though I didn't hurt myself.  (This becoming less physically agile with age is damn annoying.)

I am careful walking the ten minute walk to the hospital as the sidewalks are rough with all sorts of strange obstacles protruding through its surface. Crossing one major road en route also demands caution as apparently it is not necessary to obey traffic lights and cars whiz through red lights passing within inches of pedestrians. 

I wish I had the stamina to sightsee a little, especially a Moroccan outdoor market, or go to a museum or a mosque but I cannot untie the knot in my gut. 

There are feral cats everywhere. Some are dirty scrawny little things and others are luxurious. When Brendan and I, as a last resort or perhaps for a taste of home, went to MacDonalds the other day, we sat inside and beside me on the bench stretched a dark brown feline with white accents catching his afternoon nap. My presence didn't faze him. 

Moroccans prefer cats to dogs. I have seen hundreds of cats and two dogs in my 11 days here. Brendan read that if you whisper a wish to a cat and then feed him, your wish will come true. As farfetched as this seems, I whispered to one asking for Rob's wellbeing. 

There is something else here that I don't understand but has touched my heart. When Rob was on the fifth floor in intensive care "reanimation" in the hospital, a patient died and everyone in the waiting area dissolved into tears in communal grief, myself included. One woman who for some reason always nods and smiles at me, and makes sure I get into the ward first, handing me a blue gown, hugged me tight. Although I talked to her in French, she did not understand me. I assume she only speaks Arabic. I see her less these days since Rob has been moved to the less intensive care on the fourth floor but when she sees me, she rushes over and kisses me several times on the cheek. For some reason, this is reassuring. She identifies with my angst? For some reason, I think of her as a friend. 

At Brendan's advice, I put a small statement of Rob's accident on Facebook. He thought Rob's friends should know, especially those who get in touch with him regularly and will hear nothing. He has received over a hundred well-wishes, expressing concern and I see how loved he is. I said something to Brendan about how Rob will be less a grouchy old man and more loving when he is through this, and Brendan said that we will be more loving toward him. I agreed. 

 

May 8, 2023 in Morocco

 Our morning visit was quiet and passed as usual but our evening visit made me want to weep. When we first arrived, I stood at the side of Rob's bed near his head and took his hand. He squeezed my hand hard and lifted his other hand and stroked my face. He knew me! I still want to cry when I think of that moment. Michael FaceTimed and once again Rob lifted his hand and touched the screen. Brendan played a short video of Fauci, our cat and showed him a series of photographs of his grandchildren and children and Rob's eyes never left the screen. When Brendan played him a little country, a little Motown, he raised his fingers and moved them as if he was asking for something but we didn't know what. (I wish I knew sign language.) Towards the end of the hour, his eyes closed. We left him to sleep. 

Another bright moment yesterday was when the insurance called Brendan. (It is usually the other way round.) The man in charge of Rob's case said that it was nearly complete, just a few more questions for the doctor, and his airlift would be arranged. 

Today hopefully we will learn more.