Not laughing open-mouthed yet; this is the fifth day lock-jawed and nothing has changed, not even after two whole days of antibiotics, and a bit of Friday. I'm beginning to hallucinate and dream of huge sandwiches in soft white bread or crisp baguette heaving with hams, pepperoni and jalopino peppers in fabulous sauces. I might be facing some kind of bombardment from gamma rays or lazers to demolish the stone, which is probably tiny. Or maybe I could just get someone to give me a good thump on the jaw. That's what Morag and Hamish said tonight, at the hospital.
She is looking great; even walking better/straighter than she was before. She said that's because the bag's not there; she was always aware of it and the fear of it coming off somehow. She's a new woman, and Hamish is elated at how good she is, compared to all the other times she's been in hospital. I know that the real difference is that this time the operation was elective and she was much stronger - not ill in fact, either before or after. They're so wary of feeling good, of calling down bad luck on themselves; they're not going to think too far forward - their minds are still full of all the other times when she was banging on death's door. Let's hope he's off on tour somewhere.
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