Why does it take four people to care for one manchild? Because they won’t get the hell out of the way and quit treating him like an infant.
I thought it’d be best to have him get used to his med schedule by allowing him to serve himself. Having them all in am/pm/morning/lunch/afternoon planners and separating the pain meds from the rest and keeping a log to write down everything as he takes it makes it pretty fucking difficult to screw up. With this in mind, I left the log and his various pill boxes (each with their own unique color) on the table next to his bed. Boy, did I ever get an earful regarding that decision. Maybe I’m unique in the matter of narcotic pain meds not completely thrashing my faculties. For a guy who everyone assumes is out of his mind because he’s taking oxy, he seems quite with it to me. The only difference I notice is that he’s less tolerant of being pestered. This is a good thing, for the most part.
I am not well, even by my own standards. My shift of looking after ding dong starts around 7am and ends around midnight. If I’m not on my feet, I’m sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable dining room chair next to his bed. Being upright for more than ten minutes at a time saps me. Exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m so tired I could and sometimes do cry. Everything hurts, my appetite is shot, but don’t you know “I’m fine”? I’m having left sided back pain that’s sort of stoney. If I pass a stone, at least I get a break. Does this tell you how much I’m enjoying my time here?
I took another spill on the fucking stairs again and landed squarely on my right ischial tuberosity. That’s an ass bone. I busted my ass bone on the cement floor. Somehow I managed not to crack my head on the steps during the backlash. I suppose when one falls all of the fucking time, one develops a special skill set to fall without causing a concussion.
Post-op follow-up is tomorrow. He’s not doing well at all. The fevers are gone, but he can’t stand without getting dizzy. He freezes, his fingers turn blue and he shakes uncontrollably if he isn’t bundled up, and sweats like my underboobs in Florida when he is. I happened to look at his labs at pre-op and again at discharge. His hemoglobin went from 17 to 12.2. On top of his new BP meds, he’s anemic. Just barely by labs standards, but that’s one hell of a drop. If it happens slowly, your body has time to compensate and the effects aren’t as profound even if it’s still sucky.
I haven’t been over 9 in ages, but I function better than I did when I first became barely anemic. It’ll take a few months for him to get back up to acceptable levels, then at least a year before he’s back to baseline. Poor kid. I cleaned his incisions this evening while he was sitting up in bed, then I wiped the rest of him down with bath wipes. This was the least traumatic bathing experience he has had since the 11th. What a lucky guy.
Unfortunately, I’ve had no luck getting him to use his spirometer the prescribed number of times each day. His oxygen sat is shit. I hope the doctor yells at him tomorrow.
Now, I’m going to go die. Peace, friends.