When the ball dropped to usher in the new year, I was fast asleep.
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| Photo attribution below |
You may observe that this is no different than any other year. Mr. Ginley and I typically eat chips and watch TV. I fall asleep, he wakes me up at midnight, we drink a toast to the new year, then hit the rack.
This year, I spent the early eve with my honey quarantined in his room, both of us having tested positive for COVID (along with several others in the facility). I snuck in some contraband (chips and Vanilla Coke) and we watched the last half of the Marx Brothers' A Night at the Opera (although I was bummed that we missed the stateroom scene).
I tried not to watch the snow falling outside his window. It would be a dicey drive home.
The ill-fated Buckeyes' game was on at 7:30. I would be heading home to feed the cat before that, but I made sure Mr. had his trusty radio close at hand so he could listen to Paul Keels and Jim Lachey calling the game, which, sadly, turned out to be a stinker.
Mr. continues working hard at his PT, although it's in his room. His PT crew, donned in hazmat gear, walk him through his paces as best they can in the small space without equipment. Afterward, he's exhausted and sleeps.
His progress moves forward in the form of small steps. We continue to hope. And this week, Mr. Ginley's brother, Michael, came to visit. It's been a much-needed boost to Bill's sagging spirits.
Yesterday, I returned to my job. The cat was happy to have me at home in my office. I could pretend Bill was downstairs doing the laundry or working a crossword or surfing the internet.
And someday soon, I hope, he will be.
Photo attribution: Coalfields Local History Association Inc., Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
