Limbo: Merriam-Webster. in a forgotten or ignored place, state, or situation; in an uncertain or undecided state or condition.

The week started beautifully; we raised enough money to get Folisade her life at college this fall. We both were celebrating.

After that glow passed, the curtain lowered; we both turned to each other and said the same thing almost simultaneously: we were “back in Limbo” the state of waiting for a surgery, the state of confusion.

We ask each other how we are ten times a day, and each time, the answer is, “We’re fine.” But we aren’t.

We are in a state of uncertainty, a gray place, a different place that Maria and I – two manic creative achievers – are rarely in, if ever.

It isn’t the worst feeling in the world, but it isn’t the best. It could be a lot worse. I think of it as living in a state of gray, an ignored and hazy place. There is a sadness, a kind of zombie funk at times.

We are complainers. We don’t speak poorly of our lives. We suck it up.

We are high-energy people, always making things; when Limbo strikes, our lives seem to go in slow motion. Usually, we are both more like the Road Runner.

I’m learning that the surgery itself is only one part of having surgery. The rest is like a hovering cloud.

Limbo brings one’s life to a halt. We can’t plan anything this or next week and must cancel things we planned long ago. Should we read? Stream? Meditate? Talk

We are inveterate life lovers, driven by creativity,  full of ideas, observations, small quarrels, and overt love and connection. One of us is always taking a picture, making a quilt or potholder, writing on a blog, or doing a farm chore. Our lives are stock full of stuff to do.

We feel very much alive. Limbo is different. It is a state of getting through it all.

During surgery times, we are different. Edgy, sensitive, distracted, there but not there. We are only a few days off now, and that’s when Limbo makes an appearance and sticks around.

We are usually worried during limbo, usually about each other. She says I am the one who is having the surgery; I say she is the one whose work is disrupted by the needs of the other – me.

There are creative awards. Maria zeroes in her potholders, creative things that take days of consideration for focus, not weeks.

I turn to photographs, color, reading, and any light that keep me grounded. I sometimes sulk, just sitting in a chair. I am not normally a sulker.

We can’t look ahead; we are mired in the now – can’t eat this, can’t eat that, can’t take this medication, can’t take the other, can’t wear this, can’t wear that, can’t eat after midnight, and then only a sip of water.

The nurses call almost every day – what have you eaten? What pills have you taken? How are you today? Who will be with you? What you can b, ring and what you can’t No wedding rings, not tight pants (I wish), no necklaces or jewelry.

What tattoos do you have? Where? Here are the numbers to call, things to do? People return to that “soft voice” of pity and concern. They feel so badly for me I start to feel badly for myself.

The surgery hovers over both of us like an angry and fast-moving cloud. We know it will be all right, but we are not quite right. We are told not to worry, but of course, we worry. Hospitals do that to even the most cheerful people.

They are not places we ever want to go or really want to be. I know this will improve me; my subconscious isn’t so sure.

I can’t get to Bishop Gibbons this week, and the Mansion has been shut down for a couple of weeks due to Covid concerns. Friends were coming to see us this Sunday, but the doctors advised against planning to socialize.

Going good is my medicine. Without it, I suffer.

The surgery Friday takes our lives and sends us anxiety, uncertainty, and vulnerability. We lose our lives for a few days, and we know we are the lucky ones.

On the surface, this is not a big deal, especially compared to the toe amputation three weeks ago. The surgery and healing went well, but our lives were disrupted, held still, and controlled by healing things.

Maria had to care for me for days; neither wanted that. She does it with much grace and love.

When one person undergoes surgery, the partner or friend, or spouse, if there is one, undergoes it also.  Surgery is a tornado; it sweeps over everything.

There are ways to limit it, cope with it, and make it easier, but there is, as we found out, no way of getting around it.

Somebody has to get me home,  watch me for a couple of days, feed me, make sure I take the right medicine (people who have been anesthetized are usually dizzy for a while) and watch closely.

Sometimes has to tell me it’s all right; I have to tell somebody they are all right.

Doctors are not much into post-surgery care; they want to get the deed done; the rest is up to the patient to sort out. Surgery is a one-way ticket to Limbo. We have to work our way back, and we will.

There is this sense of boredom, up-and-down depression, distraction, sensitivity, and jumpiness. Creatives are intensely vulnerable to social and emotional interruptions, making our work more difficult and strained.

It feels as if life is on hold.

We feel tired, disconnected, and upended. In Limbo is the best term I can think of.

There is good news. Our love is more vital than Limbo; Limbo makes us closer, we talk deeply, and often, we check on each other. We appreciate one another. Surgery makes us look down the road; that is the stuff of Limbo.

We are eager to get our lives back; we are suffering from the absence of the ordinary and learning from it every time. See you tomorrow. Tonight we are going out to eat.

When I get home, I have some special flower pictures to put up.