This same time, years previous: coming home, the proper procedure for toweling off after a shower, outside eating, calf wrangling, the good things that happen, 2012 garden stats and notes, how to clean a room, fruit-on-the-bottom baked oatmeal.

Yesterday my husband had hernia repair surgery up in DC.

He was supposed to have it at our local hospital but several days prior to his scheduled surgery, a couple friends mentioned a doctor up in DC who specialized in hernia repairs and charged straight up. Just, 2100 dollars and ba-bam, done.

So then that information prompted a whole bunch of questions. What did the hospital surgery cost? How much would our insurance cover? Would a couple trips to DC — first for the consultation and then for the surgery — actually save us money?

My husband made a bunch of phone calls, trying to pin down an actual number. Nobody could tell him anything, really, but eventually he got a loose breakdown: The operating room would cost x-amount of dollars, they said, and the surgeon y-amount, but the anesthesiologist charged by the minute so… (insert helpless shoulder shrug).

Finally someone referred him to an estimation department and they told him that the hospital charges $15K, but the agreement between the hospital and the insurance company is that the most the insurance company will be billed is an estimate $7900. And of that, we’d be responsible for our deductible and co-insurance, blah-blah-blah. In conclusion: we’d probably end up spending between four and five thousand dollars for the surgery. But that was only a guess. One never actually knew how these things might go.

Except this doctor in DC knew. His surgery even came with a three-year warranty.

So we switched. My husband called the office and that evening the doctor — yes, the actual doctor — called him back to discuss his case. Wednesday, my husband drove up for his three-minute check-up — Yep, it’s a hernia — and then yesterday I went up with him for the surgery. (If he’d waited for another week, he could’ve done the check-in and surgery in the same day, but because of an upcoming project at work, he wanted to get the surgery over as soon as possible.)

Everything went like clockwork. They were ready for him when we arrived (on time), and when I went back to see him before they wheeled him into the OR, there was a small crowd loitering around his gurney, tying their masks and waiting for the nurse to finish finalizing the paperwork.

I read for a couple hours (Slow Man; it seemed fitting) before they called me back to fetch him. I helped dressed him, said hello to the doctor, got his home-care instructions, and then, a few minutes later, we were walking (or rather I walked, he shuffled), hand-in-hand, out to the car.

The whole experience felt efficient and neat, and clean. Whereas the hospital had seemed positively obsessed with contamination — they’d given my husband a whole list of detailed instructions: the night before surgery he was to shower with a clean bar of soap, dress in clean clothes, and sleep in a bed with clean sheets; the morning of, he was to shower again, with another bar of clean soap (what is this, As Good As It Gets?) and with a bottle of sterile solution that, according to the warning label, may or may not make a person go blind, and change into yet another clean set of clothes — the surgery center gave none. Just, don’t eat. Which made sense. At the surgery center, they were doing routine surgeries for mostly healthy people, but at the hospital, a place teeming with disease, the risk of infection was much greater. (So why are hospitals doing surgeries for healthy people in the first place?)

Back at home, the kids had cleaned the house. Our bed was made, a jar of flowers on my husband’s dresser. My mother brought us enough supper to feed us for three meals, and a chocolate coconut cake.

Today my husband is sore, but Ibuprofen and Tylenol are enough to manage the pain. The kids and I did school work and chores.

While I wrote upstairs, he monitored the chaos, sort of. All afternoon, he’s lounged on the sofa or recliner, taking catnaps, reading, watching somethingorother on his computer, and helping our younger daughter prepare for her driver’s ed test.

It’s fun having him here, all to ourselves, unable to do work and projects or lift more than ten pounds.

It’s like he’s on holiday which, in turn, makes everything feel a little more relaxed, a little more special, like a party.

This same time, years previous: the big finale, southern sweet tea, five-dollar curtido, in my kitchen, in my kitchen: 5:25 p.m., the cousins came, regretful wishing.

Last week, I didn’t leave the house from one Sunday to the next. Or, more accurately, I didn’t go to town. I did leave the house a handful of times: to go running and to visit my mother one afternoon, and another afternoon a friend came out to chat. But mostly, I was at home. It was okay. Boring yes, but not torturous.

And now this week is turning, unintentionally, into a repeat performance. I hosted a writing group meeting on Monday, and Tuesday a new-to-me friend came for a visit, but beyond that, I’m just here. 

It’s weird, but the more I stay at home, the less I want to go anywhere. A quick trip into town to go the library or pick up groceries begins to feel like a hurdle and I find myself putting it off as long as possible, and then putting it off some more. I can see how a person might become a recluse. Just give in to the suck of inertia.

So what do I do all day long, you ask?

Well, mornings are pretty fixed. I run (except for when my ankle swells up for no good reason, humph), shower, and then writewritewrite, only taking breaks to grab breakfast, pee, and do a bit of homeschooling.

The long afternoons are a little more challenging. I pick raspberries and pop grape eyeballs from their skins and do yet another canner load of tomatoes. I feed my starter and make granola and put a pot of dried beans on to simmer. I tell kids to wash dishes and hang up laundry and sweep the porches and put things away. I read or nap and sometimes, like now, I blog.

Occasionally I get irrationally grumpy (hello, PMS and Stupid Ankle That Won’t Let Me Run) and then my son pulls a pantyhose over his head and makes me laugh.

Other simple pleasures that get me through: NPR, Hershey Kisses, and books. Right now, I’m reading Esperanza Rising to my younger son, and to myself: Ask Again, Yes, and Slow Man, which I am, predictably, taking forever to finish. (Of note: last week I whizzed through Three Women and then paced the house wishing I had someone to discuss it with.)

Evenings are reserved for more reading, sometimes Netflix (Schitt’s Creek, with my younger daughter; The Hunt, with the three younger kids; Barry and season three of Stranger Things, with my husband; and, as of tomorrow, season ten of The Great British Baking Show, whoo-hoooo!!!!!!), and getting all wild and crazy with fruit leather.

That’s what I did last night, anyway. I made a grape puree as I would for pie filling and then blended up the sauce — no sugar — and went to town. Figuratively speaking.

All of them were a hit, but I liked the grape banana best. Or maybe the plain grape. Or the grape applesauce?

The swirl version was especially pretty.

My younger son keeps accidentally calling grape leather fruit “tar.” It does bear a resemblance.

In other news, my hair is still falling out. This is the handful I got this morning after its twice weekly washing.

What is wrong with me? I’m taking great care of it — no heat, sulfate-free products only, and minimal washings. I haven’t brushed it for two years, only gently combing through it with a pick about once a day, sometimes less.

Last Wednesday, four days out from my last wash, it was beginning to feel dry. So of wetting it down and adding my normal creams and potions, I gave it a good oiling to moisturize and condition it. 

Adding oil to my hair: now there’s something I never thought I’d do.

And so go my days, the hours spooling endlessly. It’s both tedious and productive, satisfying and dull. I grit my teeth and hunker down, doing my best to take advantage of the quiet. Sooner or later, something will pop up and — poof! — all traces of calm and boredom will instantly vanish.

Oh, look at that! A bunch of Puerto Ricans just walked in the door!!!

And we’re off!

Or at least they are, to go get pizza. I’m at home, typing this.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (8.27.18), an unlikely tip for runners, a big deal, tomatoes in cream, peach crisp, they’re getting it!, puppy love.