Not my Ana

HH had an awful night last night, shaking and jerking all over the place. I even climbed into bed alongside him a couple of times to see if I could calm him down, but it didn’t help. The nurse finally gave him a sedative at around 2 am and we both must have slept between around 3.30 and 5, when the first assistant came crashing in to change the drip.
 
We presumed that all the agitation during the night was due to withdrawal of HH’s Parkinsons meds, but he slept like a baby most of the day, even though he’s still not back on them. Very strange. The surgeon’s assistant came round, arranged for another tomography and confirmed that if the results are satisfactory, there will be no surgery. He did explain to me that the main reason for not operating if they can avoid it is that they don’t know how often HH might need the op in the future – rather daunting news. He also didn’t have much to contribute in relation to the disturbed night.
 
On our way to the hospital on Monday, I spotted this last frame of a cartoon mural, quite distant from others in the same series that I blipped last year. The story of the artist’s search for his lost love, Ana, is blazoned on walls all over Rio’s south zone– in this case, few people will see it, on a curve outside a tunnel, where cars speed by and very few pedestrians would care to walk. The pregnant girl is saying that she’s Ana, but he replies that she’s not his Ana.
 
Our handyman came to sit with HH while I went to our choir rehearsal this evening (much consternation when HH didn’t appear, particularly as there’s a concert next week). He brought some shorts and shirts from home, so HH felt a bit more comfortable walking around and they went down to the restaurant before settling down to watch some footy.