After the surgery, the doc came out to talk to me about complications, and the need for a one to two day stay. He then informed me that my darling husband would be about an hour in anesthesia recovery, and then I'd be able to see him when they transferred him to a bed.
I went and got a salad. After all, I'd had about two bites of an overly-sugary danish, a mocha, and about three cups of bad hospital coffee since 4:45 am, and it was well after noon. Food means I'll be able to take care of him instead of needing care myself.
Twenty minutes later, I came out of the elevator and headed for the waiting area, only to be intercepted by two harried-looking nurses. "Are you Grant?!!?!" (You could hear the extra punctuation, especially in the body language.)
"Yes." I close with them, noting the harassed, annoyed expressions. Self, I thought, these do not look like the faces of women here to tell me bad news. They're too annoyed.
"I'm the charge nurse, this is the floor nurse." One snaps. "First, your husband said to tell you he loved you. That was the first thing he said in recovery."
"Told me that, too." The other one chimed in. "Very insistent."
"Now, would you get back there and tell him that he needs to follow the doctor's orders?"
I grin, knowing exactly what's going on now. "Ah! Yes! No offense to his parents, whom I know were married, but he's a cranky stubborn bastard when he's coming out of general anesthesia, isn't he?"
"YES!! Yes, he is! This way, now." They hurry me off to past the No Unauthorized sign, and one mutters to the other, "If this doesn't work..."