Robert had about five hours of uninterrupted sleep last night, and when he woke up this morning his hallucinations were gone. He didn't know where he was or why he was in the hospital, but it was a normal kind of not knowing; he could look around and observe that we were in a hospital. He just didn't know what we were doing here.
"You had surgery on your back on Monday," I said. "Oh, that would explain why my back hurts so much more than usual," he said.
As soon as he woke up from that sound sleep, he knew what town we live in, who the governor of Connectiut is, ordinary stuff like that. It was like his brain had rebooted and gone back to factory settings.
As the mornng wore on he was recalling the days of hallucination like you would remember a dream. "I kept thinking we were in a bookstore, or a library, right? And did I tell you there were a lot of animals around? And that I was surprised you were here, because it was the 19th century?"
The brain is a weird and wonderful thing.
Here's the real proof that Robert is feeling normal again: he told me to squirrel away all the plastic cups he's been using this morning to take home and recycle. "You could recycle those!" he said optimistically. That's my Robert.
What we're still waiting on is an official report from the hematology docs that it's safe to discharge him. I met with them yesterday -- they were a pleasant, scholarly, mildly befuddled bunch. They reminded me of the professors in the movie "Ball of Fire," who respond with pleasure to every one of Barbara Stanwyck's practical questions because it lets them take some time to enjoy a leisurely review of the literature.
Yesterday, the hematology docs said that they like how Robert's platelets were bouncing back. I look forward to their report, which may say, "Robert's platelets have earned our confidence and may be set free to contribute to society once again, alongside other platelets with similarly vigorous constitutions."
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