Aaaaaand we’re home.

Oh sure, it was fun spending, with wife Randy, 10 nights and 12 days in an all-inclusive Club Med-style resort with free ice water and unlimited I.V. drips. Let’s call it a “hospital.”

And it’ll be odd to not be able to just pick up the phone and order French Toast and Baked Lay’s. (Knowing full well they will somehow instead deliver Baked Toast and French Lay’s.)

But somehow we will proceed without a full staff of registered nurses, hospitalists and friendly floor moppers.

Back here at Apt. 1-B, I will be the hospitalist and floor mopper for a while. There will be caregiving ahead, but don’t worry, I have two allies: extra-strength Excederin and extra-strength Chardonnay.

It was roughly on the 7th day of this journey that Randy took a positive turn. ‘Til then, my poor, sweet wife was fighting a tick-born infection and its side effects – “Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever” isn’t just a John Denver song.

For days, she had but two modes: highly agitated alertness and a medicated, faraway fugue-state.

At about 10 a.m, I had just finished writing a long paragraph in my prayer journal. (Not a joke: I’ve been writing down prayers all my adult life, to good effect. I mean, I’m still here, right? And they’re still making Spider-Man movies?)

Anyway, at the end of the paragraph, I wrote the words, “Help me help this girl back.” I hit “save.”

Within two minutes, I heard her say, “I think I’m feeling better.”

Sure enough. She was smiling, sitting up in bed like Dorothy at the end of “Wizard of Oz.” (“And YOU were there! And YOU!”)

“Th… that’s good to hear,” I said, cautiously.

“In fact, I think I’ll get up and take a shower.” She hit the nurse call button.

“Eine gute idee.” (I’ve been talking German to her lately. Don’t ask me why.)

“Also, I’m starving.”

“I bet.”

“Can you please go get me a Goodcents sandwich? I’ll have an 8-inch Italian on wheat, with Provolone, lettuce, oregano, and salt and pepper.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“And oil and vinegar.”

“You got it.”

“And Baked Lay’s.”

Again with the Baked Lay’s.

I’d like to say it was smooth sailing from there, but there were frustrating symptoms still to treat, such as a lingering headache: mine. (Just kidding.)

But today, a lovely Sunday, with the doctors in syzygy (“si-je-zee,” a term from my word-a-day calendar meaning celestial alignment) and souvenir shampoos in hand, home we were sent.

Your well-wishes and prayers helped do the trick, as well, and don’t think we don’t know it. So it is with great appreciation we toast you with… what else?

A little something chilled.