(Update: 3:30 p.m. PST, 11/25/09. Cat won’t be going home tonight; we’ll be staying another night here at Club Med. She’s fine; she’s just not recovered enough to leave. So tomorrow’s a Thanksgiving we won’t forget!)
(This post is a continuation of my last four or five posts.)
Why won’t the nurses who are taking care of my wife give me drugs, too? For her they’re concocting Morphine Delight milkshakes, and filling her with Percocets like she’s Nummo, the Pain-Killing Pez dispenser. Meanwhile, I’m stuck popping Skittles from a vending machine in the parking garage. How is that fair?
“This cot you gave me is not that soft,” I said. “Lying on it has made my shoulder pretty sore. Ow.” But the nurse only turned her back on me, and continued screwing into Cat’s I.V. tube the kind of drugs Houdini probably used for his own private disappearing act.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “Just squirt a little into my broth here.”
“And will you please stop eating your wife’s food?” snapped Nurse Attitude.
You know, for a group afflicted with such tragic fashion sense, you’d think nurses would develop better people skills. I hope there’s something in Obama’s health care plan that addresses this serious problem, which I’m sure every day affects tens of thousands of spouses of patients.
In the meantime, I’ll just have to wait. And, of course, take the opportunity of my wife napping just now to find out what all those buttons do on the wall panel next to her bed.
(Ha, ha; is drug humor ever not funny? Oh. Well, good time to get serious, then: Cat’s fine. Actually, she’s having a bit of a rough go of it. She may not get to go home today as originally planned. The amount of blood she lost yesterday has left her pretty anemic today—which has left her unable to walk, and to do some of the breathing exercises and other such things she needs to in order to avoid developing pneumonia and a whole assortment of other post-operative maladies lurking for a chance to take hold. So she may have to get a transfusion, and then stay another night for monitoring. It’ll depend on how the next four or five hours go. But basically she’s good; it’ll work out. Poor thing. This has been a rough ride. She’s napping right now. And she’s been asleep now for at least ten minutes—which means it’s absolutely certain that within moments someone will burst in here to do anything from taking her blood to taking away the linens. I’m deeply awed by the number and range of miracles that I know are happening every moment throughout this hospital—not to mention the ones happening right now in this room—but dang, I wish they could let a girl sleep for more than five minutes straight. It’s weird: out in the real world, everyone knows that one of the best ways to heal is to sleep. But trying to sleep in a hospital is like trying to play badminton in a sandstorm. Oh, well. Once I get her home, I’ll let her sleep like the angel she is.
Hey, thank you all for the love, prayers, and wonderful thoughts you’ve been sending our way. I’ve read and re-read everything you’ve written us. Bless you guys for taking the time to send us your love. We sure do appreciate it.)
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