I hate being stupid - and being treated like I am

I desperately want MG to talk to me.
It's been since sometime before 5 a.m. Saturday that I last heard her voice, when she said "I love you, too" because one of us always says "I love you" at the end of most of our conversations - especially lately, since we've been apart so much of the time.
I sit by her bed, and she looks like she's sleeping. I touch her hand and expect her to jump the way she would when she'd come suddenly out of a deep sleep, looking so angry at me (even though she wasn't, she was just startled). I expect her to roll over on her stomach and say, "If you really want to, you can rub my back."

It's Monday night, and everything today has been good. However, now I find that the surgery that I thought was scheduled for 8 a.m. is for 11 a.m. Thankfully it is still expected to be the final one on the abdomen, the one where they close up that part of MG's body because the swelling is going down and the healing is beginning.
And, even better, they seem to think the "orthopods" - as I call them - may actually get to her tomorrow, too. That's been the question I haven't been able to get answered. One doctor tells me the orthopedic procedure could begin as soon as the trauma surgery team is finished; another says if her vitals are good they may even let the orthopods go first; a third says no way, they won't let the ortho procedure start until the next day to give her body time to heal.
I'm a reformed reporter who spent most of my life working under the cute little wall-poster motto of "Get if first, but first get it right." I realize I'm not breaking a story here, but I am talking to people who I expect know ... but medicine, for all its science and formal training and the god-like respect we both give to doctors and some of them expect, remains an inexact practice.
That's not a knock on doctors or nurses or the medical profession. It's just a reminder that, like the rest of us, they are fallible. They have theories and ideas and opinions (as anybody who watches "House" knows), and sometimes they are wrong.
Yet most of the time they do eventually get it right.

Finally, I talk to an actual orthopedic surgeon. And all I hear is more "maybe this, maybe that, maybe this, I'd like to do that, but I might do this." Maybe it's late and I'm clearly frustrated.
So when will they do surgery on MG's pelvis? Maybe the end of the week. He'd like to wait until early next week. But they might do it tomorrow. And they might not do it at all, because the bones are kind of forming in the right spot so it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. But then, that's not the best thing in the world, either.
Oh, he assures me they've got MG's best interest at heart.
I do believe him. But I'm tired. I'm grumpy. I'd like to actually talk to one of these doctors face-to-face. He says he'll come by and see me tomorrow ... if he can.
I can't wait.

More disappointment.
 For some reason, I thought after the final surgery to MG's abdomen, when they'd begin to take her off the paralytic and bring her out of the medically induced coma, they'd also remove her from the ventilator.
For some reason. I thought I'd maybe get to hear MG's voice - raspy and horse and perhaps slurring her words, but I'd get to see a glimmer of the light that I know shines behind those coma-closed eyes.
Now - and it makes perfect sense - I find out it is unlikely they will remove her from the ventilator. She won't be ready to breath on her own just yet, and if there are more surgeries needed it would do more harm to re-ventilate her than to simply keep her as she is.
Plus, particularly with the broken ribs, it's going to be painful to breath. And if she doesn't take good deep breaths, she's more susceptible to pneumonia.
So the ventilator will remain part of her for the foreseeable future.
Which means no words.

I know SB and The Heir have to go back to school for final exams. But I know they want to be there if "Mama" wakes up. I know they are hoping to see her, to talk to her and see recognition in her eyes, to hear her say something back.
I don't want them to be disappointed, but I'm afraid they will be.
And I'm frustrated.

But, the night nurse tells me, she will be able to open her eyes and react. She should soon be able to follow instructions to wiggle her toes and squeeze a hand. Maybe even my hand.
Soon, we could give her a pen and paper and she can write if shes feels like it.
"And some people come out of this and write perfectly,'' the nurse tells me. "Some people think they are writing perfectly, but you can't tell what it says."
MG was always skilled in her penmanship.
You and I 'write.' MG practices 'penmanship.' It's a source of great pride for her (although she might not admit it). Those nuns from her Catholic school stressed the importance of penmanship. It was a lesson she learned well.
I hope it is instinctive.

Down the hall, I can hear the night nurse asking a patient, "Is it hurting? Where are you hurting?"
I assume he or she must be able to answer, and I'm envious.

Sometimes I am frustrated at how little progress we've made on this journey, and overwhelmed at how far we have to go.
But then, there I go - thinking about me again. I try to imagine how MG must feel. And when I do, I feel ... small.

Tracy Hipps is incredible in all this. Everyone should have a friend like Tracy. Today, he volunteered to drive to Gulfport, to my apartment, and get some of my clothes, my boots, my Bible and reading glasses and vitamins. I wrote out careful directions, described what my building looked like, wrote a map, carefully detailed exactly where in my apartment everything could be found.
I called the other two guys who live on the same floor - there are three apartments in the building, which is over a business and behind a law firm - to let them know someone was coming and would be spending the night in my apartment. I laughingly told them not to shoot him, and told Tracy that the good thing was that if he did get arrested, the building next door was home to the "Aw Shucks Bail Bondsman" service. (I love that name).
I wrote everything down, and gem-clipped my keys to the paper.
Everything was perfect.
Except I gave him the wrong key.
I hate to be stupid like that.

The vital signs are good. She's been steady throughout the day. Her room here in the trauma unit is a quiet oasis of sorts, away from the crowds in the waiting room - the crying babies, the talking families, even my own family and friends who want to be near, and I can't blame them.
But sometimes its nice just to sit here with MG, to read her the emails from friends and family, to read facebook posts about her, to read from a book or quote the words of a song or just to tell her the funny stories of the day.

I hope, somewhere behind those closed eyes and plastic tubes and matted hair, she'll wake up with her own stories.
I desperately want to hear her voice.