When I entered Lou’s hospital room early the next morning, Lou was pacing around in the tiny space, and he looked just like a caged beast. 

I’d never seen this version of Lou out in the open — it was so unusual to see Lou as anything but an amiable Golden Retriever when he was around people he didn’t know. But he was a mess, and that was a lot to take in all at once.

There was a very short urology resident that I recognized from our first trip to the Minnesota ER standing in the corner with his arms folded across his chest. He looked incredibly concerned. When Lou saw me, he crumbled even more, and I remember just standing there like an idiot.

Lou grunted, “Doc, this is my wife.” 

The doctor seemed to recognize me suddenly, and he closed the gap between us. He explained to me that we were waiting for Lou to pass urine on his own; if Lou was unable to, the doctor was going to have to insert another catheter. Things were in a real state for Lou, and he was clearly in so much pain.

But Lou seemed completely determined to will his body to cooperate. Moments later, Lou and the doctor stepped into the tiny bathroom. I could hear Lou groan in dire pain. It was so awful that my eyes welled up with tears. So I stepped out into the hall to give Lou and the doctor some privacy.

When I came into the room about ten minutes later, Lou’s face was covered with the look of defeat. He was sitting up in the hospital bed, and the doctor was filling out some paperwork on this metal clipboard. Lou softened when he saw me, and so I came over to the side of the bed. Lou rested his head into my chest. 

I didn’t need anyone to explain the facts to me. Lou had another catheter, and we were going to staying in the hospital.

We were still benched, and there was no way to know if that was going to change for us any time soon.