Day by Day

 A couple weeks ago I had to play for church and we sang the hymn Day by Day. Little did I know how much I would need to lean on those words
Day by day
and with each passing moment
strength I find, to meet my trials here.
Trusting in
my Father's wise bestowment
I've no cause for worry or for fear.
He whose heart is kind beyond all measure
Gives unto each day what he deems best
Lovingly as part of pain and pleasure
Mingling toil with peace and rest
Lina Sandell Berg 1854

Yesterday was a really long day. Mom was scheduled for a colonoscopy and was already gone from her room when I arrived about 10:30 (after going to the church, making a roaster of chili and 4 dozen eggs into egg salad for the lenten lunch). They took me to the waiting room in the endoscopy department about 11. At 1 I checked and they said it would be 15 more minutes and they would take me back to her. I won't go into the ugly details but my phone rang about 3 as I was still waiting there and Mom was back in her room. The oncologist was there and the nurse figured I would want to be there. No one bothered to tell me that she had been taken back to her room--even tho I had been waiting for 4 hours.
It was not one of my finer moments of composure and civility.
Let me insert here, that I had not eaten a decent meal since lunch  the day before
Many apologies (them) and blubbering (me) later, I managed to have a conversation with her gastroenterologist who really had nothing new to report. The biopsy report will come sometime today.

The nurse who was responsible gave me 2 $3 coupons for the cafeteria. I know. Weird.

We met with an oncologist--whose compassion and demeanor registered zero on any type of scale.
I went to the cafeteria and had a sandwich and some french fries and began to feel human again.
After coupons, it only cost me 7 cents. I gave her the correct change.
Mom was really loopy from all the sedation.
We met with the surgeon.
A kind man with cold hands.
Mom still thinks they are trying to figure out whether or not she has cancer. I am torn. But remind her that the reason she is having surgery is to remove the cancer.
She dozes off and I sit in her room and look out the window. And wonder why they would tint a window in such a way as to simulate perpetual twilight. Her snoring is somehow comforting as I text the latest information to family members.
I don't feel like talking to anyone.
Except Sam.
Who is my hero right now. He has boiled eggs, fried hamburger, cleaned up the wet basement, had a chilled wine glass ready when I arrive home and held me tight as I cried myself to sleep.
I'm going to just hit publish now. Maybe I will come back and fix this post so it actually makes sense.