Not Whimpering This Time - Much...
Well, it's March.
Hubby has now racked up 3 (count 'em, *3*) hospital stays in calendar year 2018. All of them for "bacteremia", "sepsis", and the other regular cast of familiars. He is now on his third - yes THIRD - round of IV antibiotics at home, this time the regimen will take four weeks total. What's more, he's not just on one antibiotic, but TWO - one of which I have to administer "IV push" over the course of ten minutes every day when I change out the other bag.
Yes, I'm futzing around with that little machine again; yes, I'm doing manually what I don't dare trust the machine to do for me; and yes, I've really become quite comfortable with the process - something I never wanted to do, planned to do, or even envisioned. I never wanted to be a nurse, remember? The idea that I'd not be freaking out to be messing around with Hubby's IVs everyday at approx. 5PM is almost mind-boggling, considering how freaked out I was the first time around.
But hopefully four weeks will be enough time to get those blasted limphodema ulcers on his right leg healed enough. Well, that coupled with the fact that on Thursday we'll be trekking 100 miles south again to the ultra-specialized wound care facility associated with Cottage Hospital. Insurance said "yes" to a repeat visit - but "NO!" to having the preferred vascular surgeon of the wound care doctor do a vascular doplar test. No, they think that we should get THAT done in our own county, with local talent and equipment. It will be interested to see if the doctor there will be as willing to go to bat for my Hubby on this point as he was about getting him approval for the repeat visit.
Hubby is, quite frankly, fighting tooth and toenail to not lose at least the lower part of his leg to amputation. I've been told by home health care - as well as Hubby's new primary care physician - that if his OLD doctor hadn't been such a complete failure, it's quite likely that the leg would have been long since gone. So I guess Dr. Quack has a silver lining - that is, *I*F* the new medicines and treatment actually manage to heal what has been a three-year-long on-going nightmare.
You know, it's almost ironic that, in the last year or so, Hubby has finally had it pounded into his head how vitally important it is to get his blood sugar numbers under control - and to actually do so to the point that he's technically no longer considered "diabetic". I have to watch him like a hawk, take away all the tempting stuff like I would if he were a young child - and frankly that part of it ticks me off something horrible. I really don't appreciate being made into a "bad guy" for the benefit of someone who fights my efforts - even knowing what I'm doing and why. I am a firm believer in personal responsibility - and that Hubby needs to learn to "man up" and not rely on me and my willpower all the time.
Personally, I have very few psychological or emotional resources left. When Hubby announces to me - wakes me up to tell me - that he needs to go to the ER, I become numb. I simply do what I need to and probably function in a shocky fog until he's settled and admitted - at which time I come home and just sit for a while, not quite sure whether to laugh or cry. Tears are never far from the surface anymore, but I manage not to let them flow too often. I can't. I don't have the energy to fall apart completely and still be able to pull myself together afterwards.
Mommies don't get sick. I learned this years ago. Now I'm learning Wifies don't get sick either.
Muse? What Muse?? I have maybe enough energy to play LOTRO and take out frustrations on virtual orcs and goblins. I have a story that plays with my mind as I try to fall asleep - something I don't do well on a normal night, nor do I sleep soundly anymore either.
I'm not falling apart, I promise. I have my mental duct tape working for me. And may the Universe grant that its Dark Side never fail!!!