Today is incredibly frustrating . . .

I really fucking HATE my dad's doctor.

Seriously.

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.

Outside.

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?

Nope.

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.