This sucks, this bites, this blows.
I “enjoyed” three to five two hour naps throughout the night. I ached for him and agonized for him and dreamed of rescuing him over and over and over again.
I woke with a splitting headache and the desperate need to cry that wound through arid ruts of pain, agony and just plain pissed off. I dozed and cried and dozed and melted into surrender and cried some more. Fuck.
At one forty five this afternoon, the phone rings and it's Rich. Swear to gawd he sounds like he's calling from a cruise ship—having a wonderful time, wish you were here... just wants to know when I'm coming in and he wants me to bring the newspaper. Tah.
Well, yee, fucking, hah. So I am all about THAT! For reasons I cannot explain, I'm having a hard damn time dealing with that. On the one hand, I'm totally happy that he sounds that damn good after surgery. On the other damn hand, I'm trying to process the flip order for the newspaper and the total lack of inquiry as to how I'm doing. I am such a bitch.
I called seven people in a desperate attempt to reconnect with sanity. Every damn call went to voice mail. By the third one I stopped leaving messages. Apparently, the universe decided I was not supposed to talk to anyone.
I drove to the hospital and at every red light I beat the steering wheel within an inch of it's life. I was vaguely aware of the effect this was having on fellow motorists. At least I keep my road rage to myself. By the time the steering wheel was unconscious I realized I wasn't mad at Rich, I was just mad. I was exhausted and scared, and mad that I can't get a really good cry going so I can purge.
I walked into his room and he lit up like a Christmas tree, reached for me and pulled me as close as his incision and tubing would allow. I was with him less than a full minute when a horrifying look came over him, time stopped and I realized he wasn't breathing, he was silently choking and paralyzed with fear. Without thinking I pulled the pillow out from under him, held it against his incision, rolled him to his side and whacked him so hard on the back I'm amazed I didn't break a bone.
GROSS ALERT.... skip over the next paragraph if you've got a weak stomach.....
A huge plug of mucous went flying followed by a considerable amount of green/brown stomach fluid, drenching the bed, overflowing and landing in a big puddle on the floor. Suddenly the NG tube that had been accomplishing nothing dumped 500 cc more into the vacuum container on the wall. Tanya answered the call light, started doing all the amazing nurse stuff, called the doctors, and respiratory and we got to work cleaning him up. Between more gagging and heaving he kept telling me I'd saved his life, “If you hadn't been here, pupshun, I would have choked to death.”
I doubt it. I think our Angel threw me a bone. Just a little something to let me feel I'm not totally useless.
Respiratory brought a pickle. Seriously. That's what it's called, probably because that's what it looks like, and it's even green. It's the size of a luscious, large kosher dill with a mouse piece at one end. It has chambers and ball bearings inside. It was developed for children with cystic fibrosis because they have mucous problems. You blow into it ten times and it breaks up the mucous so it's easier to expel. No shit, it works. Out of curiosity I blew into it to see what it feels like. Amazing. Rich now uses it diligently. Every hour just like they said he blows into it thirteen times. (They said ten but I told him thirteen is a lucky number.)
Today I went in to see him. All the tubing is still in place except for the catheter. He's still on mouth swabs only, but he no longer yearns for food. I can tell the NG tube is annoying and it makes it much harder to expel the mucous, but he has not uttered a word of complaint to me or his nurses. He eased over and I curled into bed next to him and we were both instantly asleep.
I'm trying not to think. I'm pretending that it's a normal Sunday evening and I'm going to get up and go to work tomorrow like it's a normal Monday morning. I'm trying to pretend that he's away on a golf vacation with his buddies. I'm trying so hard not to think that this is what my life will be... sitting alone on the couch on a Sunday evening watching Robin Hood for the 937th time just because where else can you get a dose of Alan Rickman, Morgan Freeman and Kevin Costner in one sitting? I'm trying to ignore the weeds that are consuming his garden and taunting me in the process.
Mostly I'm trying not to believe that the day will come when Dr A can't fix it.
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