Slowly getting back to “normal” but still no routines. I am weak but eating again. Ed, however, has, I believe the same thing, and later today will get to the nurse practitioner in our doctor’s office. I told him not to wait until it was a crisis. I firmly believe if we hadn’t gone to the ER last Saturday, I would now be fighting pneumonia.

Psychologically, my head turns around when I am really sick. Suddenly, it is as if I have never been okay, never had energy, have always been an invalid. It’s a way of life and I’m in it and suddenly it’s the norm. Years ago, when I was all tubed up, I remember looking at people walking into my hospital room with amazement. “Gee,” I thought, “look at them walking around without anything attached.” I had a Levin tube. This is a tube from Hell inserted into your nose and through your throat, down the trachea and into your stomach where it stays until God says it can come out, except He’s on vacation this week -- I don’t think they use the Levin tube any more. I also had a catheter, an IV, and a drainage tube sticking out of my abdomen tied off with an iron nut and bolt weighing maybe a pound and dragging on the edges of the incision. Jay dug into his electronics equipment, and replaced this torture device with an anodized aluminum clip weighing a fraction of an ounce. I passed this intelligence on to the doctor. Duh.

I called the nurse practitioner two days ago. I had eaten nothing for three days, and been able to hold down only half a glass of water. My peristalcis was on vacation. I was worried. I spoke with her assistant, who called her. The consensus was that I should continue to try to force fluids or to call 911. I was worried about dehydrating. I toughed it out. In New York, my internist actually came to my house a couple of times when Jay and I were sick. (I assure you, this was his idea.) This is Florida, senior friendly, you would think. Go figure. I am waiting for the assistant to the assistant to get an assistant. Can’t be too careful. Contact with patients can do you in. But receptionists can be really caring, you know?

In a state where I am sure there are many elderly who obsess about their medical problems, and whose smarts have been compromised through years of neglect and also, because they live in a religious and intellectual Hell down here, highly conducive to a condition I call mind-numb, and all sound as if they work at Wal-Mart,the medical people get overwhelmed with unnecessary calls. But if you get to know people in an office and have leaned on them maybe twice in 9 years, surely that should tell them you are not a hypochondriac? Except they are so burdened, that one size fits all. It’s a patient, yes, a senior, obviously hysterical, incompetent, or both. Get it away from me. Now I am not saying they didn’t make the right call, but the tone of understanding was lacking. They used to call it a bedside manner and perhaps any medical training should start with a course in it.

So this morning I made phone calls canceling Ed’s guitar lesson, his appointment with another ombudsman about something. He is feeling overwhelmed because he takes everything very seriously. These are volunteer things, but you would think he will lose his job if he doesn’t show up. And everything is at least an hour away so that’s a lot of driving.

Meanwhile, Brunswick and Chewy spent the week sleeping next to me on the bed so I know this support group is in my corner. Brunswick would come up to me, stick his nose into the bedding surrounding my face, make sure I was breathing, (yep, still there, don’t panic) and then curl up next to me. Chewy, a bit less delicate, would walk on my stomach, and then settle down. Thanks, Chew, I needed that. Max cared, but didn’t interrupt because Chewy makes him unwelcome.

Interesting that I am looking better because 20 hours of sleeping every day will do that for you.

My GTF (go-to-friend) Nadine has the name of another doctor she says is always there for you. Very tempting indeed.

xx, Teal