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Today, I am tired.

I spent 11 hours at the hospital yesterday, sitting in uncomfortable waiting room chairs (whoever thought an aluminum pipe was adequately served as an armrest is an idiot) and watching re-runs of at least 8 reality court room dramas. Judge Joe Brown, Judge Christina, Divorce Court, and Judge Judy—apparently they air them once in the morning and again after lunch. I'm glad to be employed.

If it's even possible, Scott's injuries were worse than everybody thought. The white stuff that I thought I had been looking at in Scott's hand over the last couple of weeks were not his tendons; it was his bone. Instead of shaving off the top layer of skin on his thigh and leaving a sunburn mark, the doctor instead had to remove, to quote him, "a sizable chunk" from his leg to adequately cover his hand and elbow. He now has a stitched scar running from his knee cap up the length of his inner thigh—like an inseam to his pants. He may never be able to use the last few fingers on his left hand again; the pin inserted was merely to keep them straight and not grow permanently curled into his fist.

The surgery lasted over three hours. I got a lot of knitting done, a little reading done, but absolutely no work. It's hard to write a magazine article in the state of mind I was in, followed by the background noise of Gary Coleman's appearance on Divorce Court.

He had been awake for over two hours before I could see Scott. The ambulatory surgery wing has closed by then, leaving me alone in the waiting room with the lights off. The anesthesiologist did an additional procedure to block the nerves in his left arm—if Scott had absolutely no feeling in his arm, then he also wouldn't feel any pain.

My endocrinologist called me first thing in the morning and gave me the results of my biopsy. It wasn't good news and that's all I'm going to get into for now.

Today, I am tired.