Winter and the Imbolc Moon
Wednesday gratefuls: Swedish ER. Swedish hospital. Feeding tubes. Interventional radiologists. Pulmonologists. A long sleep last night. Exhaustion. That fuckhead. One week. Impeach him. Convict him. Imprison him. No mercy. Calm. Deep breathing.
Kate’s back in the hospital. She has a pneumothorax again, in the same spot as last two times. A leak, if you will. Her feeding tube, the one placed on Sunday, came out on Monday. So it needs replacing, too. Not sure how long she’ll be there and I can’t visit her. Covid.
A lot. She’s had two trips to the E.R. this week already and now a hospital stay. The last three weeks have increased the level of difficulty here. For both of us. So much that I’m glad she’s in the hospital so I know she’s ok. That’s weird, eh?
Not easy to describe my feelings right now. I’m so tired. I slept almost 12 hours last night. Kep and Rigel were more than ready for breakfast. I’m worried about Kate, of course, but I’m glad she’s where some folks can pay attention to her medical needs.
We’ve both become frustrated, which is a nice word, with the medical care system. Managing her feeding tube is a nightmare when a problem occurs. No one owns it as their responsibility. Most don’t know how to handle it. See this Sunday’s ER visit. Yet it feeds her. Pretty important.
She’s been sick so long that it’s hard to discern serious symptoms from not so serious ones. And, to know who to reach out to discern the difference. Sjogren’s complicates everything with its suite of symptoms, like fatigue and low grade fevers, that mimic the symptoms of other diseases.
Then there’s the emotional toll all this takes on both of us. Hard.