We are approaching day 23 in the hospital and it appears we are stuck in the middle of an awful 1990’s Bill Murray movie waiting to see if Punxsutawney Phil will see his shadow.

Our motto has changed from “Day 1: Let’s Do This” to “Day 23: GET OUT OF HERE!”

I have no room to complain because Joe’s days are much more repetitive then mine. He’s awoken every morning between 5 and 7 am with a knock on the door and a harsh light as the doctors make their rounds. Nurses follow, hands full of pills and a dreaded shot he gets every day in his already tender tummy.  Joe refused the shot a few days ago and to be honest, I don’t blame him. He told the nurse he just needed a break and some control for the day. He feels a lot like a pin cushion and a test dummy as he lays in that bed and so much is happening to him.

We’ve hit a few bumps in the road to recovery. Joe was spiking fevers and doctors have caught two infections brewing. He’s had to have some procedures and cat scans to try and fix it all and we’re hoping he’s finally turned a corner.

I try to take his mind off of things by talking about the baby or weird heartburn I’m having. You can imagine his sympathy for my heartburn as he’s staring down staples spread across his abdomen. 🙂

I try to protect Joe from seeing other patients as we walk the halls. I’m quick to close a curtain so he doesn’t see the man in the bed across the way, his skin is green plagued by organ failure and his ankles peeking out of bed are thin and hardly moving. I never want Joe to see other patients and think that’s him, that is his life.

In fact, I struggle with the idea of getting to know too many people on the floor. I sometimes feel like I simply can’t handle anymore sadness. I’m full to the brim with bad news and I can’t hear someone else’s story.

But then there’s the part of you that needs to hear it, so you know bad things happen to all kinds of people and there’s no room for a personal pity party in this life. We can complain about our month long stay on floor 5 or we can think about the woman in her 40s who has been here 4 months. Her mom is with her after driving her daughter’s 3 kids and 4 animals to stay with another relative while they wait for their mom to come home.

Then there’s the guy on Joe’s floor from Illinois, he has a 9 and a 16 year old and is undergoing surgery only to recover and return to chemo and then another surgery in 10 months. We met his brother in the waiting room as the family is taking turns to stay with him in the hospital.

There is no doubt this is the greatest test of our lives. I’m not sure who we will be at the other end of it. I hope we’ll be better. I asked Joe the other day why he has hardly talked about the baby in the last few weeks and his answer broke my heart. He said, “If you can’t get the oxygen mask on yourself, how are you going to get it on the person next to you?”

He feels scared he won’t be able to take care of me and the baby but I know he will. The moment he starts talking she starts kicking around in there. She knows her daddy’s voice and is already #daddystrong.

Isn’t this the cutest little onesie our friends sent us?

Doctors can’t give us a timeline yet of when Joe could possibly be discharged from the hospital but we do know we’ll be here another 1 to 2 weeks after. We are 32 weeks pregnant this week! So keeping a close eye on our little lady.

I can’t wait to tell this little baby about how brave her daddy was and how she saved us before she was even born. She gets me through sleepless nights.  Instead of thinking bad thoughts I focus on what she’ll wear for her newborn pictures.

Joe told me he pictures us home, in bed, just the bathroom light shining through the room. Wrigley is between us and our hospital birth bag is packed and downstairs by the door.

So for now it’s one day at a time, as the saying goes.

We’ll just keep waiting for Phil to come out and see his shadow.