The past 5 months--abridged edition
So.
January: I took a neuropsychological test, and it sucked. Like, eight hours, total fuckery (except the test-givers, who were my cheerleaders through the marathon, only the marathon was twice the usual time). It was full of things like "Now, we're going to draw. Let's do a sample of this stick figure. You did it! Great job. Now try one on your own: draw a unicorn holding the periodic table of the elements in one hand, and a small diorama of the Nina, Pinta, and the Santa Maria in the other hand. You have one minute."
As predicted, I had a major meltdown and came home after the test not knowing my middle name. That's when I went to the hospital, if you're following along.
I met with my neurologist, who was like, "that sounds bad" and "let me wait for the test results."
I met with the neuropsychologist after 3 weeks for feedback (the whole test takes like 3 months to grade) and she said "I'm going to recommend you for social security disability."
I'd say that was hard to hear, but that's like saying, "Hitler kind of had an 'issue' with Jews" so I won't delve into it, but let's just say it was--what's the word?-- devastating.
February: My husband fell down the stairs, and after a day of saying, "I believe I'll be just kind of sore" he let me take him to the ER, where we got the fancy suite, considering we've been there 5 times in the last year. I assumed they had a punch-card system and the next one is free.
Turns out, he needed a new knee. As in "give me a melon baller, and I'll just scrape that shit out of there and give you a bionic knee."
As anyone who has ever driven by billboards in the last year can tell you, the OPIOID EPIDEMIC has had us scared to take something stronger than Tylenol, so we arrived at the pharmacy where they gave us Percocet, and it was like handling bees. Suffice it to say that my husband got four out of five symptoms of a Percocet allergy so March was a shitshow.
March: see above.
April: my husband had his surgery, and the only thing that went wrong was he almost broke the bone saw, and the orthopedic surgeon laughed heartily and that was it.
Within a week, my spidey-sense knew something was wrong when he had pain shooting up his calf, so I told them I was taking him to the ER which I found out was NOT free, as I had assumed. We found out he had cellulitis, which seemed like they phoned that one in, based on its name. The doctor has a big surgery and a late-night soiree at another doctor's house and said, "I have no idea what to call this. It has to do with cells--I've got it! Cellulitis" and went on with her day.
Despite 3 shots of morphine, which I think is what you need to take down an elephant, it didn't take the edge off. So my husband spent 3 days in the hospital with 2 antibiotics. Then they put in a PICC line and sent him to a rehab facility.
I say rehab facility when what I mean is OH HOLY HELL I'VE SEEN SATAN'S ASSHOLE AND IT LOOKS LIKE [name of the facility, which I cannot say without a lawyer saying "libel suit"]. I could go on and on, but let me just say we had to put a note up that we requested nurses to please put in fresh gloves when they messed with his PICC line. You know, the one that goes straight to his HEART.
The final straw came when the nurse came in to change his bandage and instead of one that was dry (like the one he had on) applied something that looked so wet it was like something used to clean up soup.
I swooped in like a bat out of hell (with aphasia) and packed him up and whisked him to the ER which STILL didn't give us our free visit. They took care of him and were ready to send him to a new facility whose reviews read like a dirty motel, when B, the surgeon's right-hand man said, "Well, we can probably put him on oral antibiotics," and he was permitted to come home.
May: my husband's recovery from The Knee is going well. My D-Day (or Stroke Day, which doesn't sound nearly as cool) is May 11. I'm getting a massage in the morning and going out to dinner to say, what--I didn't die and I have breadsticks to prove it?
The real celebration with be a month later, when the friend the universe gave me to get me through my stroke, (like it was all, "Okay, we just served Stefanie a shit sandwich, we gotta give her a friend who will be on her side forever") can celebrate with us in a quiet "Fuck you, stroke" kind of way. It will be with friends who for whatever reason, are still glad I'm around.
And that is more than enough.
January: I took a neuropsychological test, and it sucked. Like, eight hours, total fuckery (except the test-givers, who were my cheerleaders through the marathon, only the marathon was twice the usual time). It was full of things like "Now, we're going to draw. Let's do a sample of this stick figure. You did it! Great job. Now try one on your own: draw a unicorn holding the periodic table of the elements in one hand, and a small diorama of the Nina, Pinta, and the Santa Maria in the other hand. You have one minute."
As predicted, I had a major meltdown and came home after the test not knowing my middle name. That's when I went to the hospital, if you're following along.
I met with my neurologist, who was like, "that sounds bad" and "let me wait for the test results."
I met with the neuropsychologist after 3 weeks for feedback (the whole test takes like 3 months to grade) and she said "I'm going to recommend you for social security disability."
I'd say that was hard to hear, but that's like saying, "Hitler kind of had an 'issue' with Jews" so I won't delve into it, but let's just say it was--what's the word?-- devastating.
February: My husband fell down the stairs, and after a day of saying, "I believe I'll be just kind of sore" he let me take him to the ER, where we got the fancy suite, considering we've been there 5 times in the last year. I assumed they had a punch-card system and the next one is free.
Turns out, he needed a new knee. As in "give me a melon baller, and I'll just scrape that shit out of there and give you a bionic knee."
As anyone who has ever driven by billboards in the last year can tell you, the OPIOID EPIDEMIC has had us scared to take something stronger than Tylenol, so we arrived at the pharmacy where they gave us Percocet, and it was like handling bees. Suffice it to say that my husband got four out of five symptoms of a Percocet allergy so March was a shitshow.
March: see above.
April: my husband had his surgery, and the only thing that went wrong was he almost broke the bone saw, and the orthopedic surgeon laughed heartily and that was it.
Within a week, my spidey-sense knew something was wrong when he had pain shooting up his calf, so I told them I was taking him to the ER which I found out was NOT free, as I had assumed. We found out he had cellulitis, which seemed like they phoned that one in, based on its name. The doctor has a big surgery and a late-night soiree at another doctor's house and said, "I have no idea what to call this. It has to do with cells--I've got it! Cellulitis" and went on with her day.
Despite 3 shots of morphine, which I think is what you need to take down an elephant, it didn't take the edge off. So my husband spent 3 days in the hospital with 2 antibiotics. Then they put in a PICC line and sent him to a rehab facility.
I say rehab facility when what I mean is OH HOLY HELL I'VE SEEN SATAN'S ASSHOLE AND IT LOOKS LIKE [name of the facility, which I cannot say without a lawyer saying "libel suit"]. I could go on and on, but let me just say we had to put a note up that we requested nurses to please put in fresh gloves when they messed with his PICC line. You know, the one that goes straight to his HEART.
The final straw came when the nurse came in to change his bandage and instead of one that was dry (like the one he had on) applied something that looked so wet it was like something used to clean up soup.
I swooped in like a bat out of hell (with aphasia) and packed him up and whisked him to the ER which STILL didn't give us our free visit. They took care of him and were ready to send him to a new facility whose reviews read like a dirty motel, when B, the surgeon's right-hand man said, "Well, we can probably put him on oral antibiotics," and he was permitted to come home.
May: my husband's recovery from The Knee is going well. My D-Day (or Stroke Day, which doesn't sound nearly as cool) is May 11. I'm getting a massage in the morning and going out to dinner to say, what--I didn't die and I have breadsticks to prove it?
The real celebration with be a month later, when the friend the universe gave me to get me through my stroke, (like it was all, "Okay, we just served Stefanie a shit sandwich, we gotta give her a friend who will be on her side forever") can celebrate with us in a quiet "Fuck you, stroke" kind of way. It will be with friends who for whatever reason, are still glad I'm around.
And that is more than enough.
The unicorn sentence, lol.
ReplyDeleteAnd the PICC line ... ewww ... sat back in my chair a half inch, wincing a little. Almost squinted my eyes like in a scary movie because that sounds so very awful. I was in a rehab center once too, which was okay (the people tried their best) but not great, and I got a secondary infection too. The food was so bad that I actually lost some weight. But...your poor husband. And your wonderful friend...like mine.
nice
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