This post was delayed for want of a clever title.

Only my third day on the job and already I'm neglecting my duties as Designated Blogger. Shame, shame. That's what happens when I get caught up reading political discussions on the internet.

Anyway. Mom's home, as promised. She's been home for a good twelve hours or so now, and has long since gone to sleep. She's exhausted, but still in fairly good spirits. Frustrated that knitting is so much slower with only one readily usable eye, but that'll pass. Frustrated, too, by the restrictions she has to deal with during the healing process. She's not allowed to lift anything, not even to make tea, for the next two weeks, lest she strain or break the stitches. (She had similar restrictions after the mastectomy, but it wasn't very long before she felt well enough to cheat a bit. But then, these stitches are on her face and represent rather more delicate work.) "In a year," she reported morosely this afternoon, "I'll look normal again." Oh, the joys of fair skin. I'm hoping I'll skip the skin cancer thing entirely and go straight to burning to a pile of ash like the vampire I appear to be.

Also, for the next three weeks, Mom has to sleep with her head elevated. This means another three weeks of sleeping in the recliner in the living room that we bought for that purpose. The living room, where our puppy sleeps. Our lovable, 70-lb drool monster whose idea of playing nursemaid is to chew on squeaky toys and steal Mom's slippers. And occasionally attempt to mate with furniture. He will periodically wake up at night and check on her, though, by putting his head--which accounts for about 60 of those pounds, I am convinced--onto Mom's arm and pressing down, as illustrated here:

In that respect, at least, it's rather like staying at the hospital; someone's always coming 'round to check on you and disturb your rest. At least he's rather cuter than the average nurse. (Disclaimer: This is not meant to imply that nurses are usually unattractive. It simply means that my puppy is really damn cute.)

Also, Alfie snores. But, unlike when he decides to come sleep on my bed, Mom doesn't have to worry about the way he also, in his sleep, kicks like a freaking mule. There's always a silver lining, eh?

So, this. And then, in a few weeks, more surgery. Which will, in turn, probably lead to more of the same. So it goes.