One worry off my list -- Pop came home this noon, walking upright and capable of sitting in his favorite chair to read a WWII book. And Clyde hasn't left his side, yet, nearly two hours later. Looks like the two males in the house are very happy.
According to Mom, the surgery was a little more detailed than she could tell me over the cell phone; Not only did he have his prostate geshrunken, but they actually pushed a three-centimeter concretion (which they called a "bladder stone") back up into his bladder, blasted it into a buzillion tiny bits of calcium, and rinsed it away. She has all the gory details, as well as a picture of the concretion. I'm thinking that I'm learning way more about the inner workings of my father than I ever wanted to know.
The truth of the matter is, I never really recognize the physical presence of my parents, because they are so much more important to me as emotional, spiritual presences, and as examples for living.
These are smart, witty, loving, sharing, warm human beings -- as well as Pop being a scary paternal presence of the corrective sort. I reckon I don't really want to think of the clockworks that keep them both moving about the neighborhood. But then, they're both in their seventies, so reality will have its way, won't it?
Mom is running errands, picking up meds, fetching some afterthought groceries, and is expected back soon.
Dunno what I'll do until then. Pop hates feeling as if he's being baby-sat. Maybe I'll just stay hidden up here for a while longer, and just keep my ears peeled.
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