FRIDAY 10 PM . OVERNIGHT IN ROOM 956
Okay, so it turned out not to be our last day here. As a matter of fact, it's not only not our last day here, but guess where I'm sleeping tonight. St Johns Hopkins Hotel, Room 956, in the reclining chair positioned right next to Colleen reclining bed. In fact, we are wearing matching mint-green cotton gowns, except I'm tying mine in the front and Colleen ties hers in the back. I've elected to don hospital bottoms as well; Colleen prefers not. 

As noon struck today without any sign that Colleen was being discharged, we both fell into a funk. The social worker who arranges transfers to physical therapy rehabs finally came by and admitted that she had only begun today seeking a facility for Colleen. We'd thought yesterday. She came back a while later to report that Colleen's first choice near Somers Point didn't feel medically confident enough to manage Colleen because of her oxygen needs. By this time, it's closing in on two o'clock. She proferred two others, another one not too distant from Somers Point and the other Hopkins own acute PT center on an adjoining campus. No matter what, it looked likely we'd be spending another weekend in Baltimore. These transfers involve paperwork and take time.

How could we survive another lost weekend here? Plus, I'd checked out of my hotel this morning and, because of the Preakness Stakes running at Pimlico here tomorrow, there are no rooms available anywhere in Baltimore tonight and through the weekend. My only option was to sleep in the hospital for the next three nights, which felt like the dimmest of prospects.

At 3:45, the second New Jersey prospect called Colleen. She calmly answered the rehab liaison's many questions and ultimately was given the green light to check in tomorrow. Colleen's face lit up at the news. We were leaving after all. And she'd been admitted to rehab. Suddenly, sleeping overnight in the hospital seemed not so bad. In fact, it's turned out to be rather fun. Colleen's a few yards away reading a novel she just started called "The Magician's Assistant" by Ann Patchett. I'm propped up in this comfortable but temperamental recliner writing. So far no blaring intercom.

The plan: Colleen is supposed to be discharged at 11 o'clock tomorrow morning. I will pick up our car that's been gathering dust for the past ten days in the Hopkins parking garage, drive back to my hotel to pick up the bags I left behind with the valet, and then swing back to the main hospital to pick up Colleen. Up I-95 we will go, go, go.

Our eyes are at half-mast. Petite Nurse Liz of the long blond hair, our favorite, will soon bring in Col's last meds of the day. Voices from the hall are audible but blessedly muted. The plastic water tank attached to Colleen's oxygen sounds like a babbling brook, truly. I like this.