Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Today is still not over . . .

Will wonders never cease?  My dad's doctor called us today.

My dad's white count is still elevated.

The nurse said, "Has he been feeling sick?  Like with cold symptoms?"

I said, "You're joking, right?  He was just discharged from the hospital six days ago!"

She was unaware.

Long story short, the doctor, in his infinite wisdom (ha!), decided to readmit my dad to the hospital.  Direct to the floor.  Do not pass ER.  Do not collect $200.

We got here at about 5:00 PM.  It's now 11:00 PM.  They've taken blood.  They've done blood gasses.  They've done an EEG & an x-ray.  They're playing around with his PICC line, because they aren't able to withdraw blood from it . . . though it is flushing just fine.

I asked whether another antibiotic has been ordered, and was told that though his white count is still elevated, nothing has been ordered.  Doctor has ordered consults, however . . . probably because he, himself, is utterly fucking clueless.

My dad asked me to call his mother and his son, and against my better judgement, I acquiesced.

I wish I hadn't.

Said son showed up here, and not far behind him were two of my dad's sisters, no doubt called by their mother.

The evil witch sounded completely disgusted to be hearing from me.  His son barely looked at me, much like his sisters.  Then they all made sure to get along peachy keen with one another while pretending I wasn't there.

They even talked about his son's son -- a.k.a. my nephew, who is 2 and whom I've never met.

That there's a tale for another post . . . specifically one not written on my cell phone.  Because however cool my cell is, it cannot replace a full-sized keyboard.

I just type better when I'm using all my fingers, I suppose.

Right now, I need food and sleep.  In that order.

And I'm going home to get both.

More tomorrow.

Today is quiet . . .

Well, we didn't go to the ER last night.

I sat in with my dad until around 2:00 AM, when my youngest came wandering out of bed looking for me and I had to take her back upstairs. 

He had some strawberry jello -- with peaches! -- for breakfast, and now he's napping again.  I'm sitting on the recliner in his room -- my usual perch -- just like I sat last night . . . waiting to see what's going to happen.

Fuck, I hate this.  I wonder if we'll hear from my dad's doctor today . . . ?

I'm not holding my breath.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Today is incredibly frustrating . . .

I really fucking HATE my dad's doctor.


So . . . here's the what:

Up until two weeks ago, my dad's last hospital admission had been 18 months ago . . . which is AWESOME, considering that for the previous 6 - 8 years, he'd averaged at least one hospital stay per year.

Two weeks ago, we called an ambulance, even though the situation wasn't totally dire at that point.  He'd been feeling progressively weaker, however, and hadn't been particularly interested in eating or drinking, so we thought we'd play it safe and get him checked out.  Turns out that rather than the usual suspect -- i.e. pneumonia -- his issue turned out to be bullous emphysema.

Basically, that means that because of his existing pulmonary emphysema, he developed multiple bullae -- essentially, bubbles -- in his lungs.  Those bullae happen to be fluid-filled . . . though, generally speaking, bullae could also be air-filled. 

Now, while I'm sure that the doctors in the hospital would've loved to discover exactly what was up with the fluid in the bullae in my dad's lungs, on account of the fact that my dad only has that one lung, it's not like a needle aspiration ideal in his situation.  (A needle aspiration is where they stick a needle into the chest, and into the lung, and into a bulla in order to draw some of the fluid out in order to test it.)  But considering my dad's elevated white blood cell count, it was obvious that an infection was brewing.

So, since a needle aspiration was a big no-no, the doctors decided to prescribe a heavy-duty antibiotic to knock out said infection.  My dad was prescribed tigecycline, twice a day until October 8th.  It's only available via injection, so for the 9 days that he was in the hospital, and for the four days he's been home, he's been on receiving it via IV . . . first in a standard IV site, and then via PICC.

He was feeling better after a couple days in the hospital.  His appetite returned, and he was eating well.  He was also VERY eager to get out of the hospital and home . . . which he did on Thursday.  And things didn't start off on a good foot, let me tell you.

We got home, and he couldn't get up the 5 front steps without issue.  Two of the possible side effects of the tigecycline are nausea and diarrhea.  The diarrhea kicked in as my dad was walking up the steps.  He just knew he wasn't going to make it into the house and to the bathroom in time, so my husband had to grab the bedside commode and bring it to my dad.


On the front stoop.

Thank God we live on a street that's not crazy-populated.  Between my fat ass blocking the view from the front, and a throw-blanket draped around my dad's shoulders, anyone who happened to walk, run, or drive down the street and catch a glimpse of us wouldn't have known that my dad was taking a dump.

He only ate a sandwich for dinner -- but after the stress of getting home, the unexpected (literal) shit, and the subsequent ride into the house on the commode (my husband and I just picked it up, with his skinny, 98-lb. ass still on it, and carried it into the house) . . . let's just say that I wasn't surprised.

He ate some pancakes for breakfast the next morning.  He had a sandwich for lunch, and then we all had pizza for dinner.

On Saturday, he had cereal for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, and a pear for dinner.  Then he said he was feeling nauseated.

On Sunday, he tried some scrambled eggs for breakfast.  He ate maybe half-a-dozen bites.  He didn't want any lunch or dinner, though, because he was feeling more nauseated. 

On Monday, he didn't eat until dinner, when he had some beef broth.  He was nauseated again, and he also had some dry heaves.

I called his doctor's office that afternoon.  I was starting to think that we should maybe take another trip to the ER.  I spoke to a nurse in the office, explained my concerns, and waited for a call back.  When it finally came, over an hour later, the nurse told me to wait and have the home-health visiting nurse evaluate my dad when she came to do his bloodwork on Tuesday.

Today is Tuesday.

My dad ate about 2 bites of pancakes for breakfast.  He skipped lunch, which is when the visiting nurse arrived.  She took his vitals, asked some questions, and called my dad's doctor from the house phone.  She gave my dad's vitals to the nurse at the office, and she explained that he wasn't eating, he was nauseated, and she gave her opinion . . . that he needed to be evaluated in the ER.  Then, she did my dad's bloodwork as she was waiting for the doctor to call back.

Of course, he didn't while she was there.  In fact, no one called me back here at home.  The office called the visiting nurse on her cell, and told her to discontinue my dad's antibiotic.

Um . . . and . . . ?

No "and".  Just DC the antibiotic.  She said that the doctor would probably wait until he saw my dad's bloodwork -- which she was on her way to deliver to be processed STAT -- and then he'd most likely call me back with more instructions.

Yeah . . . sure.

My dad had 2 servings of beef broth for dinner.

Did his doctor call me back?


It's now 10:52 PM, and I'm debating calling another ambulance, so we can get that ER evaluation.  In fact, I'm debating calling another ambulance and asking them to take us to the other local hospital, so that I can get an evaluation from someone other than my dad's FUCKTARDED doctor . . .

. . . whom I really fucking hate.

Monday, September 30, 2013

Today is Menu Planning Day . . .

  • Monday:  Grilled Pork Chops with Stuffing and Carrots
  • Tuesday: Grilled Chicken with Rice and Green Beans
  • Wednesday:  Homemade Hamburger Helper (with Egg Noodles) and Corn
  • Thursday:  Pizza Night!
  • Friday:  Football Night!
  • Saturday:  Chicken Noodle Soup and Grilled Cheese Sandwiches
  • Sunday:  Italian Sausage Tortellini with Sage Butter Cream Sauce and Crusty Bread
What are you cooking this week?  Need some inspiration?  Visit Laura at I'm an Organizing Junkie for some kick-ass dinner ideas!

Today I introduce you to my fucked up life . . .

I'm Sarah.

I live with my husband, our four kids, two cats, a guinea pig, a brand new kitten . . .

. . . and my dad.

My husband is my best friend, and he has been for many, many years . . . for much longer than we've been married, and for much, much longer than we'd been involved with each other in a nekkid way.

My older daughter is 15.  She and her 14-year old brother -- my older son -- are (really) the only good things that came out of my relationship with my ex, and are two of the reasons why I drink.

My ex and I are much better off as friends than lovers . . . though recently he's become my tennent, which is a decision that I regretted almost as soon as I'd made it.  He's another reason why I drink.

My younger daughter is 7.  She and her 8-year old brother -- my younger son -- are yet two more reasons.

Let's recap, briefly:  If there happens to be a list, and that list happens to be titled "20 Reasons Why Sarah Drinks", my four kids and my ex are reasons #16 through #20, in no particular order.

Reasons #1 through #10 . . . ?

My dad, who has lived with me for the past 5 years:
  1. My dad has COPD; specifically, he suffers with bullous emphysema.
  2. My dad has only one lung, which is nowhere even remotely near 100% function.
  3. My dad is an alcoholic, though he rarely drinks these days.
  4. My dad was an abusive bastard back when I was growing up, and I once hated him with a fiery passion.
  5. My dad is the most stubborn man (barely) alive.
  6. My dad is a mere shadow of the man he used to be . . . I mean, like, literally a shadow.  He only weighs about 100 lb. these days, and he was once a man for whom buying dress pants was hell, because the size that would fit his waist wouldn't comfortably fit his thighs and calves, on account of how muscular they were.
  7. My dad often cannot walk the 20 steps from his bed to his bathroom, so I'm often emptying his urinal and/or his bedside commode bucket.
  8. My dad often cannot walk the 6 - 8 steps from his bed to the dining room table, so I'm often serving him his meals in bed.
  9. My dad often cannot walk . . . when he does, he does so slowly, painfully, and breathlessly, and he usually only does so when he absolutely must.
  10. My dad is dying a slow, agonizingly painful death . . . and I have a front-row seat.
Reasons #11 through #15 are as follows:
  1. My brother (and his psychotic, cunningly manipulative, and mentally abusive wife).
  2. My dad's mother -- who is a cold, cruel woman, and for whom a special place in hell must be reserved.
  3. My dad's sisters -- who are the apples that didn't fall far from the tree, if you know what I mean.
  4. My mom and her siblings -- whom I love, totally and fiercely, but who drive me utterly bat-shit crazy (especially my mom).
  5. My husband -- whom I love with all my heart, soul, and body, but whom I sometimes think I shouldn't have married, because he is the youngest child of his siblings, and I am the oldest of mine -- and everyone knows that if you're an "oldest child" and you want to be taken care of -- rather than ALWAYS HAVING TO ACT THE ALPHA -- you simply DON'T marry a "baby of the family". 
This is Sarah in a nutshell.

Welcome to my life. 

Hop right in . . . the water is warm, but be forewarned that it might just be on account of all the piss in the pool.

Today I am tired . . .

I'm always tired.

I'm Sarah. 

Well, no . . . that's not entirely accurate.  I'm not really Sarah.  But I already did the blogging thing under my real name, and it didn't work out all that well. 

Though I kept everything relatively anonymous when it came to names (I only ever mentioned my own), I caved to my innate egotism.  I wanted people to read me.  I wanted people, who knew me in real life, to get to know me in the Bloggiverse . . . to get to know me as what I've always wanted to be -- a writer.  I wanted validation from people to whom I could put faces to names, and vice versa . . . not just from those beautiful, yet etheral folks I'd met in the 'Verse.

So, I leaked posts here and there on FB and Twitter, with accounts linked to my real name. 

Suddenly, I was whisked back in time to junior high school, where people gossip behind your back when they're not actively aiming their slings, arrows, and daggers at that hard-to-reach spot between your shoulder blades. 

My egotism lost me my outlet . . . my crutch . . . my security blanket . . . my sounding board . . . my touchstone . . .

. . . because now, my old blog is ruthlessly scoured on a regular basis by people who have nothing better to do with their existences than cause vexation for others, for nothing more than voyeuristic sport.

So, I'm starting a new blog.  I'm pointedly ignoring my ego and I'm determined to keep my new sanctum as far apart from my real life as possible. 

If you're reading this, please understand that you'll never get a chance to "meet" my kids, face-to-face, though I'll talk about them frequently.  I'm truly sorry that you'll never get to see how gorgeous they are -- and believe me, they are gorgeous.  I made some damn beautiful offspring!  -- but I'm going to do things right this time to protect my temple. 

And my sanity. 

Seriously, dudes . . . I can't go through the drama I went through with my old blog!

Hence . . . I'm Sarah.

And I'm always tired.

Today I want to run . . .

I want to run away.  Far, far away.  Away from my kids.  Away from my husband.  Away from my mother.

But especially away from my father.

I want to get in my car and start driving, and I don't want to stop until I need gas.  And then I want to drive until I need gas again.

Lather, rinse, repeat . . .

. . . until I'm so far away that I don't know anyone or anything.

And then I want to drive for another hour or two, just for good measure.

I want to live in a miniscule walk-up, or in an itsy-bitsy bungalow . . . in some place where I'm not responsible for property taxes or much maintenance.

I want to not have enough room to collect junk.

I want to worry only about feeding me.

I want a mind-numbing, tedious job that pays just enough for the necessities.

I want to wallow in peace and quiet and solitude.

I'll settle for a 30-minute nap.