Waiting for the Other Shoe to drop...

I no longer wait for the other shoe to drop. At this point I've learned that the other shoe is not going to drop. It is going to rear back in a perfect arc, achieve maximum velocity and KICK me in the ass.

I now live in the Imelda Marcos Room of Hell.

Wow, it's like this is all about me. Oh, wait. It is. Outside of this blog EVERYTHING is about Richard. Only in this blog is it about me, so yeah... this is about me.

So Tuesday evening Rich started an intermittent struggle with nausea and a bit of vomiting. Wednesday he left the content of his stomach on the seventh tee. But he was happy that he and his buddies were given rain checks for the remaining nine holes. Mainly I heard about how guilty he felt that he had messed up his buddies' golf day. He ate a light dinner and felt better. Next day it started up again. Then he would feel better for hours, then he would be sick, and the cycle continued and he ignored my plea for him to call the doctor. In our defense we both desperately wanted to believe it was just a bug or something he ate.

But I have to say—Gross Alert—that in my years of professional experience with vomit, I have never seen anything like this. For volume and velocity it scores a ten. More amazing, I cannot fathom the output related to intake. It's just plain scary.

In the past twenty four hours I couldn't pretend anymore, but Rich was adamant about NOT GOING TO THE ER. The other shoe is reaching the magic point in the arc.... So here's how stupid I am. The man has an infection to the point of sepsis without running a fever. I trust his blood pressure to let me know if dehydration is reaching critical mass. His BP is 122/78 so I trust him to sip water and keep me posted. This morning, after up all night with this I give him the choice, either he calls Dr Kelli or I call the squad. Still his vitals are good and I'm thinking maybe it is just a bug.

Follows the whoosh of full velocity shoe leather.

Long story short. I can't face another trip to the ER because the last time we were there I had to sign papers to let him die. So I call Dr McGee in hopes of a direct admit. Here's a kicker—every single time Rich has a crisis, Dr McGee is on vacation. Seriously?? !!! Can I get a fucking break?! I'm not saying McGee shouldn't have a vacation, I'm just thinking I need to get that schedule so I can prepare myself with some major ass padding. It's like they have a psychic-greater-than-golf link and the absence of McGee lets the cancer think it can rear it's ugly head.

Thank the heavens Dr McGee's office is so wonderfully awesome.

So Rich is back on the oncology floor where I can rest peacefully. (He's lost 15 pounds in the past week.) It's the weekend so ain't shit gonna happen except that they can get him hydrated. McGee is back Monday so I know he'll keep anyone from doing harm. And Dr Kelli is just plain ON IT.

Have I mentioned how much I HATE roller coasters? And the other shoe...