I am so nervous this morning. As I sit in this very accommodating hotel room, I think of how much I would like to be in my own home, and wonder if today is the day I get to go home.
In order to go home, I have to get my PIC line out. I also have to have a better white blood cell count. I have to be doing well enough not to have a setback when I get home. Right now, I am doing alright with pain medication (although I am loathe to take it), and I hope the doctor will think I am doing alright.
I do have a few items that have developed since I left the hospital, but I hope they are not going to be anything major. Hopefully, they will fall into the realm of normal side effects from taking 6000 gallons of antibiotics and other medications that saved my life.
Sometimes I feel sorry for doctors. They are almost like ill-tempered fairies that people feel obligated to acknowledge, but would rather not. They will give you a gift, but it’s always double-edged. You know, like in M.M. Kaye’s “The Ordinary Princess,” (one of our favorite read alouds), where the fairy godmother, Crustacea, gives poor Princess Amethyst Alexandra Augusta Araminta Adelaide Aurelia Anne of Phantasmorania the gift of being ORDINARY.
Double-edged gift, I tell you. Her parents were almost forced to hire a dragon to capture her so that a knight would be required to marry and rescue her (no one wanted to marry an ordinary princess, you see.)
Or when Maleficent says Princess Aurora will grow in grace and beauty, but “Oh, by the way, she’ll also prick her finger on a spinning wheel and DIE!!!!!! Mwahahahahaha!!!!!”
(Maleficent always terrified me. She was just so urbane and civilized in her deviousness and villainy. My sister played her once in a play and was a dead ringer for her. Which shocked me (and everyone else for that matter), because my sister is an angel, and always has been. She’s like Beth in Little Women.)
I remember when I was younger always wanting to be like her, because I thought the sun rose and set on her, and I would determine to do just that, but, inevitably, not more than two hours later I had lost my temper, or acted like an uncouth neanderthal with my lack of decorum and inability to keep my mouth shut for more than 22 seconds at a time. I finally gave up, but always thought how lovely it would be to be so full of grace.)
Sometimes I feel doctors are like that.
Not like my sister.
Like Maleficent or Crustacea:
“We saved your life, but now there is an IV permanently stuck in your arm for who knows how long, you will probably get thrush, maybe a huge rash all over your body, and we may have to operate on you and give you medication to help counteract the side effects of the medication that we just gave you and that may give you a giant wart on your nose indefinitely.”
Yes, I think doctors may actually be ill-tempered fairies in disguise.
Double-edged, I say.
But, for all of that, I am still happy to be here, warts and all. (No, I actually don’t have warts. It is just an expression. At least as of today. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?)
At any rate, I am trying to think positive, and hope that there is no surgery in my future and hope that the extra syringes they gave me to flush my line won’t be necessary because hopefully in a few short hours, it will be gone.
Please pray for me. I feel somewhat like a prisoner sitting in my cell each day waiting for my body to remember how to feel better, to walk and to hear properly again, and waiting to see if I’ve been good enough to get out on parole.
At this point, I don’t care if I have to use a walker, because at least that means I will be traversing a space larger than 600 square feet.
Really, I just want to go home and direct my daughter in making a big pot of gumbo for me. And I wish to keep it down without the help of anti-nausea medication.
Guess I’ll have to find a good-tempered fairy to do that.
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