Thanks for the words of support regarding my husband's recovery. The good news from the doctor yesterday is that his heart hasn't "gone irregular" in the two weeks since his surgery, whereas it had gone irregular 1500 times this year prior to his surgery, strongly suggesting that his faulty pacemaker lead was the problem.
The one piece of weird news, which of course is what I choose to fixate on, is that his pacemaker is requiring a somewhat higher voltage than they expect. I'm assured that this is an issue of battery life, not my husband's, but it still gives me a panicky little feeling every time I think of it. I realize that this is folly, that even if he didn't have a pacemaker, I would have no control over the number of his days or their quality. But I get nervous anyway. I know. Worry is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere. Rocking anyway.
But I have to get back to doing the things I was doing before things went all kerflooey. I need to write, that was the big dream. I need to take better care of my body--take it out for more walks, feed it healthier food. There was a third goal, too, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. I think it was to keep a clean house, so I would be ready to have people over at a moment's notice.
That would be nice, so I wouldn't have a repeat of last Sunday. Last Sunday I was covered in flour and up to my elbows in pasta dough. I had a huge pot of sauce and meatballs bubbling and spattering behind me on the stove, and I was screaming that guests were coming over in one hour, that the house looked like an inner-city bus depot, and that the inescapable conclusion was that my children were trying to kill me.
Yes, I'm sure the third goal was "keep a clean house." It couldn't have had anything to do with "be a calm, kind, and loving parent," since clearly I am already all aces in that department.