We forgot it was Thanksgiving Day yesterday. The docs decide to keep R on bed rest until Saturday. I appreciate the care and caution on his behalf, but I am struggling a little, knowing that in the states he would probably been sent home within hours of the surgery. R didn't get much rest in the hospital with his chatty roommates, so it is probably just as well. I manage to get the physicians to snap to the need to make plans on a longer-range than day-to-day and they agree that tickets for Sunday is a reasonable decision.
An art shot entitled: Three Men's Legs
Heather the booking agent starts to work on our tickets, and I leave a message at the motel to expect me for two more nights. Mr. B., one of the roomies, convinces me to go see the tuataras at the museum. An ancient lineage of reptiles best seen in Invercargill. I need a break, and I also need to visit the motel office and present a credit card - they haven't actually met me yet, or mentioned money, but I imagine they will want some.
I also use the phone to connect with a friend thrice removed. She actually drops everything, comes to the hospital, spends a few minutes with us, and gives me a ride to a museum. It is so nice to talk to someone who shares my language and perspective. She helps us both get grounded, remembering all the things I already know, esp. that I can't control this situation and I'll do more harm than good if I try.
The tuatara looks like a large lizard, although apparently it is not technically a lizard. The individual I see, Henry, is over 120 years old, about 18" long, and basking in the sunshine. The displays report that the curator has been wildly successful in getting them to breed in captivity, that they are terribly endangered, that they have a pineal eye, and that the spikes on the back are feathers, not spines. R would be digging this. I am introduced to the curator, Lindsay Hazley, recipient of the Queen's Service Medal for his tuatara work (with the right to put QSM after his name) and it is clear to me that we really should come back to Invercargill so R can talk to him about the pineal eye business.
The museum has a collection of Victoriana, some stuffed albatrosses, a display on Antarctic exploration, and some Maori artifacts. I liked the display on how greenstone (jade) was worked by the Maori into tools. And there was one excellent contemporary piece, a set of black paper cutouts pleated and fanned out like draperies, at least 6 feet tall, called Sista7 byLonnie Hutchinson, in a group exhibit of Maori artists.
Call Heather - she is overnight mailing me tickets to leave Sunday at 6:55 am. Walk back to the motel and try to figure out what other city Invercargill reminds me of. It's not so dreary as the hospital and motel had caused me to believe. There are some tinges of Cherokee Gothic architecture and the yard trees don't clear the rooflines, which makes me think of the Texas panhandle or Oklahoma. Maybe Juneau: the gardens are full of English cottage style plants like foxgloves and calendula and there are tall trees in the parks, Monterrey pines. Most of all are the clouds streaming across the sky from the southwest, an occasional break for a sunbeam, an incredible sunset Tuesday night, a vast variety of puffy clouds flowing like a river across the sky.
Good thing I took a break, because I don't flip out when the motel owner tells me I can't stay Saturday night, because there is a dog show in town and she is booked solid. It really isn't that hard to find another place across the street, and the new one will have a handicapped shower, and the nice folks will shift the bags over for me in the morning. I go back to the hospital, say good-bye to R's most talkative roommate, Mr K., an autistic piano player who remembers who wrote all the songs and when they came out. He would be a great guy to have on your team for "6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon" if he could understand the point of the game.
