I had good intentions and post planned and then Lovely Husband announced his only plan last Saturday was to go to the Emergency Department of the local hospital. Okay, it wasn't so much a verbal announcement as it was perhaps the interpretive dance of his writhing on the bed in agony. I spent six hours on an uncomfortable plastic chair next to his bedside while they kept him topped up with pain medication and ummed and ahhhed about what was actually wrong with him. Finally (and after six months, really, of misdiagnosis), a surgeon was called in to consult: "off with his gall bladder". He was admitted that night for further scans and surgery in the morning. I bought a weekly pass for the parking lot, which turned out to be highly prescient, given they kept him in a state of Nil By Mouth and doped to the eyeballs on endone and morphine for four days before the scheduling of both the surgeon and the operating theatres collided. I spent the days at work then traipsing off to his ward to wait on the surgeon who never came, to wait for the operation that never came, each evening. Finally, finally, they pulled that sucker out. I know, because I watched the video.