Last I talked to him, he was doing the so-glad-I-got-morphine butt dance. Of course, he's doing a butt dance because, well, brand-spanking-new bionic knee. They're not quite ready to let him actually dance.
He was so totally high, that he sounded like he was Mickey Mouse on dope. Heeeeee!
While I was chatting with him on the phone, one of the nurses came in to hook him up with a blood bag and he was all, "Whaaa? Do I need that?"
So, the nurse explained it was his own blood. I guess they collected it while he was in surgery, bagged it, and was just re-infusing it back into his system.
I hear the explanation (the phone has a sensitive pick-up), and I said, "I guess this means you're being recycled, hunh?"
Dad!Marcs was like, "Oooooh yeaaaah! I'm being recycled!"
Which caused the nurse to have a giggle-fit.
Anyway, I'll be seeing him tomorrow. He'll probably be slightly more grumpy and a little less high.
Also, Dad!Marcs wanted to thank everyone for offering advice re: going to rehab. He seemed palpably more relieved tonight that he'll be able to work hard on PT in a safe environment.
Meanwhile, I've gotten totally addicted to The Tudors, since I have Showtime On-Demand on a 30-day trial. Apparently, my kink is historical soap operas. Yikes.
Less than 24 hours to Battlestar Galactica. I've already heard some spoilers (I'm a baaaaad spoiler whore) that already has me weeping in my Cheerios. Say it ain't so, RDM! Say it ain't so!