You Wish

We're home and I'm about one thousand percent more exhausted than when we left Miami. (This I hope is thanks to surgery, a long effing travel day that started at six a.m.--four a.m. home time--(after a night of mediocre sleep at best) and ended at midnight home time (two a.m. Miami time), begging Gray Kitty's forgiveness, cobbling together some kind of dinner out of what was in the freezer (Quorn grounds, frozen mushrooms, frozen spinach, frozen butternut squash and udon sauteed in avocado oil with some soy sauce and umami sauce seasoning), then showering and getting another bandage/dressing change from Dave--this was approaching five a.m., about an hour before we made it to bed--figuring out how to set up the bed with my wedge pillow and then trying it out first in one bed which didn't work and finally in another bed that worked enough, and spending the last day navigating a much larger space than our cramped little hotel room.) 

First, poor Dave for real. He endured all that, yes, sans surgery but having to take on the caregiver role which is daunting, exhausting and relentlesss. He is as, if not more, exhausted than I am, even now, and has since re-taken over care of Gray Kitty from our superstar cat- and housesitter (more on her soon). 

Second, I just took half a Tylenol/codeine tablet and I'm going to be out soon, real soon, but not before another dressing change and it's 1:30 in the morning now--3:30 a.m. Miami time, which I'm sorry to say we are still caught up in. (Why are we exhausted again?) 

Our travel day. Fuck me.

One of the women whose youtube channel I watch is married to a pilot and she posts all kinds of interesting information about travel and airports and while watching one. of her videos, I learned about a program called TSA Cares. (You're already thinking, yeah, right, those dead-eyed drones who make you throw out your mouthwash and take off your shoes care? I don't think so). And it turned out to be the most fucking amazing thing.

How it works is: You fill out an online form 72 hours before you travel saying that you need extra help, say because of a medical condition or because you're traveling with human remains--both described my condition as far as I'm concerned--and then they contact you. They assign a TSA agent to do a bunch of things like in my case to meet us at the security line and take us past the security line and allow us to carry through medically necessary liquids in excess of the farkakte three ounce limit. All that and more magically happened in the barnyard explosion that was the Miami TSA security point--only ONE lane of which was open due to poor staffing--and where people were waiting for a very, very, very long time to get through security. We had an amazing TSA agent who led us through, past all those people, to the front of the line, where our bags were screened and I had a manual pat down from a nice if overworked young woman and my medical kit was examined and they offered to walk us to our gate or find us food (we declined those things) and all of them were so pleasant and kind to us and if you ever have to fly after surgery do this TSA Cares thing because--who fucking knew?--but TSA actually cares.

We had more hours of layovers than we spent in the air. I cried in one airport bathroom when I had to put my oxygen concentrator on the floor instead of on the shelf that was mounted at my shoulder height and would have required me to lift my arms up higher than I'm allowed to following surgery.

And I was just telling Dave what it is like to see all the people near the gate eyeing my fat ass and thinking to themselves that they hope they don't get cursed by having me next to them in economy taking up all the armrest and half their seat because they clearly think that fat people are scary and gross. I feel a certain way about that. I just do. But then later I get to see those people again as they shuffle past us in our roomy first class seats with our own arm rests and leg room to spare and a flight attendant asking us if we want anything to drink before the flight. And those people who were disgusted thinking they would get stuck next to me are now wishing that they had the seat next to mine, but no, sorry, they get to shuffle to the back of the plane to the cattle car that is economy seating. They get to resent me for a whole new and different reason. I feel a certain way about that, too. I just do.

We're home and I'm exhausted and there's more to come including about our amazing cat and housesitter. 

In One Piece

In the Real World:

 

Monday was Kelly's birthday! Happy birthday, Kelly! Dave and I had our act together enough to send some birthday flowers and hopefully we can meet up when we get back to the real world. Kelly's been front and center bolstering my psyche via text the whole time I've been here, something I've sorely needed.

 

In the Unreal World: 

 

We had our last visit to the surgeon this morning. (At least, I hope it's our last visit as we're heading home tomorrow afternoon and the only reason we would have to return is to have her take care of any complications that would require further surgery.) Anyway, the surgeon thinks things are looking really good; I can finish out this course of antibiotics and don't need another course and can taper off the topical antibiotics. We'll still have to do two or three daily dressing changes with iodine though until it heals completely, which might take up to a month. Poor Dave. I don't think he realized that this is just the beginning of our journey into this impromptu nursing school. (I was telling him tonight as he changed and dressed the incision yet again, how it was like in nursing school, when you got to practice on a mannequin or a fellow student once and then the next time it would be on a real patient. Or even better, when all the training you had was a single YouTube video and then you were sent in by yourself to work on a real patient. When that happened, usually the person who was getting paid to teach you was off somewhere like the hospital cafeteria getting a breakfast burrito--that is true, as is this--or sitting in a hospital conference room doing her nails.)

 

Anyway, what a crazy run it's been here in the Unreal World.

 

What did I see of Florida? I saw the ride from the airport to the hotel, two rooms in the hotel, from the hotel to the hospital and back, from the hotel to the surgeon's office and back (twice--no, it was three times) and (tomorrow) from the hotel to the airport. I stood out on our balcony a handful of times. I crossed the street in front of the hotel to go to Trader Joe's twice. That's it. Dave saw more of Florida as he went to Trader Joe's pretty much daily, to Walgreens and Office Depot, to Shake Shack and a pizza place, to Publix and another grocery store called Public Market (?) maybe. He also kept a close eye on the canal outside our window and gave the daily canal report, the comings and goings of parties of kayakers and schools of fish and the man and woman and two very large, energetic and happy dogs who came every couple of days or so in a little white boat that they parked underneath the BOAT TOW AWAY ZONE sign.

 

Bur really, I saw nothing of this place and yet I may have had my fill of Florida for a long time. (Maybe next time we can cross Residence Inn and surgeon's office off our list and add Key West or the Everglades.)

 

We spent the evening packing, exhausted, and having a dinner (pre-cooked chicken, steamed yellow squash, sliced cucumber, slices of sourdough with cheese, some sugary pretzel thins) cobbled together from what's left of trips to Trader Joe's. 

 

I just took my one a.m. meds and I'm off to bed in a few minutes. The next time I write here it will hopefully be from the comfort of my own sofa. I just have to make it there in one piece. 

Tearful

Another tearful morning.  The infection is clearing up and the wound is closing, but there is one spot, the same spot where the suture popped and the second suture got put in sans numbing, that spot hurts like a motherfucker when it's touched.  And it gets touched a lot by the saline wash and the iodine swabs and the gauze with the antibiotic ointment and the bandage that goes over all of that and the weight on it when I lie down and try to sleep (which I could not manage to do last night). And it was all too much this morning. So there were a few tears when we did the first dressing change. 

Doesn't help that I'm cutting pain pills into quarters-- practically turning them into homeopathic remedies--and taking each quarter with a Tylenol 325. Because that combination helps not at all with pain. It is a particularly ineffective attempt at voodoo magic however. 

I'm tired and Dave is tired. We see the surgeon again tomorrow.  She's got surgeries all day but is seeing us between two of those. I'm scared to fly home with this complication still happening.  And did I mention I emailed my PCP about the situation and her response was that she's all booked up until the end of the month and maybe I can call and see a different provider. But she'll email me if she gets a cancelation. 

Do you really think I believe that last bit? Because if you do, I have a bridge I'm selling that would be perfect for you.

But let's back away from all that stupidity and take a moment to look at how Gray Kitty is doing with his sitter, the new love of his life:

He's never going to forgive us when we get back and she leaves. 

This painting hangs in the lobby as you enter the building where the surgeon's office is:

I guess I hope it describes my situation. 

Hickory Dickory Dock

 A shower day. Those are exhausting. I probably should be showering every day, but both Dave and I are tired and adding the stress of showering to the thrice daily dressing changes of the wound on my now less smashed up self is sometimes too much, so showers are only happening every 36 to 48 hours. It's the best I can do right now.

But even with all that (and not even knowing if I'm making sense right now), there were no tears today. (Also, my period finally ended after, like, ten days, so maybe that has something to do with it.)

The infection is clearing nicely and the edges are starting to close up. We have to remain vigilant, but for the moment things are going the right way.

This is how out of it I am: I was reading the news and saw a headline that surprised me, so I had to confirm with Dave: "Are the winter Olympics on right now?" Turns out, yes, the winter Olympics are going on right now. That's a thing that's been happening in the world while I've been here in this hotel room.

And it was sunny today. So that's good.

My meals today consisted of a chicken and roast beef half-sandwich on sourdough with mashed up avocado, an easy meal to make to take with my antibiotic. A bowl of oatmeal with sunflower butter and soymilk and added collagen supplement. A repeat of the chicken and roast beef half-sandwich with my second dose of antibiotic. A half sandwich of Swiss cheese and mashed avocado with some baby carrots and cucumber slices. Half of a protein bar. Then, after my shower when my blood sugar was dropping and I felt faint, three tiny cookies (like, literally the size of a quarter) and two Werthers and a cup of soymilk. Then dinner --frozen chicken gyoza and tofu and some pre-cooked chicken--with the third of my four daily doses of antibiotics. Later, I'll have some more chicken with the fourth and final dose of my antibiotic.

And though we've been doing three bandage changes a day, I think today we'll do two so Dave and I can get an extra hour of sleep tonight. (God, don't let this decision be the wrong one.) At some point, we have to prioritize rest as an important part of healing, right? Strike a balance. Anyway, we'll pick up with the three dressing changes again tomorrow.

I have the energy for one more visit to the toilet and then to get into bed with Dave's help. I think I'll fall asleep to Pitch Perfect. (For awhile anyway, since I take my fourth dose of antibiotic at two a.m.) 

Tedious Tedium

Another long day in the hotel room.  They tested the hotel fire alarms this morning. It seemed to go on and on but was probably just over 10 minutes. Strangely, they also tested the fire alarms in the hospital the night I was there.  Maybe it's fire alarm testing season.

Speaking of seasons, it was fall out early winter here yesterday and today it's spring.  The sky is blue and it's still chilly but nice enough for us to have the balcony door propped open. 

We texted the surgeon a photo of the current state of the infected part of the incision and she said it's looking really good and on the right path.  Well see her on Monday to have her look at things since we'll be traveling home and back to our pitiful little state's archaic medical system next week. 

Please, do not get me started on trying to arrange follow up care once we return home. 

I napped in the afternoon, had a snack with Dave and took the last dose of azithromycin, then we changed the dressing over the incision. 

Just after surgery, when I was the most smashed up and needed all the help for all the things, I didn't care about dignity and it didn't matter who saw my smashed up self. Now I'm feeling naked when I have to strip down to the waist to change the dressings on the incisions and that feeling of nakedness and embarrassment is made worse when we forget to close the curtains. Our balcony looks out over a busy intersection, because of course it does.  I'm sure no one or nearly no one looks up into our room, but they could, and if they did, they would see everything. 

And I misjudged the timing of the Tylenol I've been taking for pain so the dressing change felt extra painful. The surgeon has a very mild manner and she had said something about pain increasing with wound care and as the affected area healed and it was so under the radar that the pain of it initially took me by surprise. I leaned a bit on the Tylenol with codeine and now I'm down to my last few of those. (The initial prescription was for forty of them--FORTY--and I had laughed because there was no way I was going to get through forty pain pills. Now I'm looking with dismay at the last five of them in the bottom of the pill bottle and wondering how to deal with this situation. Should I just double up on the Tylenol 325s we got over the counter or cut the last five in half and take a half with a Tylenol 325...because there's no way I'm up to facing the pain of this situation sans medication. 

And everything hurt more than it should have. 

And the wound wash spray felt incredibly cold when it hit my side and ran down underneath the towel that I had wrapped around my waist. 

And I just cried. 

When we were done with the dressing change, I put my thin nighty back on. Dave pulled the curtains all the way closed.