We've got the black and blues

My dad has a hematoma.
A very severe bruise, two inches about the skin graft.
And it keeps filling up with blood (the surgeons squeezed more than a cup out of dad’s leg).
He took the pain – and sweat through his clothing – as they worked on him.
“You get a gold star for pain today,” he said.
I was in tears.
The plastic surgeons, the ones who did the muscle graft, were very pleased with how the graft looks. They are mildly concerned about the hematoma and the blood, but not overly worried.
“We’re not giving up, and neither should you,” the lead surgeon said.
The infectious disease doc isn’t worried either – that the antibiotic he’s on now is the correct one for the bone infection.
And it is the infection in the bone that holds the key to all of this.
So, we continue to treat that.
And watch the bruise.
He’s been taken off the blood thinner medication.
And I will teach the homecare nurse tomorrow how the surgeons want his leg wrapped from now on.
Dad’s resting, trying to think about what to have for dinner.
I’m in a funk.
I fly back to California on Monday.
I feel like I should stay. But I can’t. I’ve got things to face, work to do.
The worry makes my skin crawl. I am lethargic. I am sorrow.
Dad can sense it.
“Tell you what,” dad said. “You can come back out if they cut my leg off. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.
“But you have to take care of yourself, too.”
I find no comfort in that.