I have no earthly idea what is going on, although my best guess would be that last week's "Hail Mary" emergency procedure has, in fact, failed as everyone predicted. The other possibility would be that the surgi-ma-callit-ectomy was not the "fix" for these recurrent bouts of horrid epigastric pain Hotter's been having, and we're back to the drawing board entirely on that (the surgeons' best guess as to what they'd need to do if Hotter still had more attacks involved cutting him from hipbone to hipbone, removing loads of adhesions, and installing some synthetic material to hold his guts together so honestly I'm rather HOPING the Hail Mary has failed). Either way, after spending much of the night awake either whimpering (him) or fetching pain pills and threatening to call an ambulance (me), I ended up saying to Hotter what we always say when one of us is headed to the ER or the OR:
"Be good. NO DYING!"
The paramedics got a kick out of that, but I could barely even manage a smile, because it was six in the goddamn morning and already the day had included a 911 call and honestly? I'm more than a little bit sick of this.