Friday (Ding ding!)
After a night of being repeatedly interrupted with blood draws and the checking of vital signs (yes, I’m still alive, go away) I am woken at 6 AM to go get a chest Xray. Because blood must be drawn at midnight, and Xrays done at dawn. Makes sense. I order eggs, bacon, sausage, yogurt, and a bran muffin for breakfast. I threw in bran muffin and yogurt for a healthy cover. No one cares, cause it’s my lungs, not my heart. I’m not terribly worried, as at this point, I’m still not sure I’m coming out of this alive, so I might as well enjoy myself as much as possible.
The nurse asks if I want a shower. Not really, but I think others want me to want one, so why not. I am wrapped up so I don’t get the IV wet. My hair I don’t touch. I’m not sure it’s actually hair anymore anyway. Maybe it might make a good nest for something.
Dh returns. Doctor shows up and asks how I am doing. Haha, that’s a good doctor joke there, because of course my answer is horrible. Yet there is a part of me that is compelled to say “fine” like a good American who never admits that anything is wrong, even when attached to monitors and an IV. This is because generally no one wants to know how you’re doing. They’re just being polite.
She says I get to stay another night in their fabulous resort. After all, one can’t expect to recover from a Pneumonia you can see on the Xray from orbit, she says. I’m once again complimented on my ability to get sick on a complex scale. I bet my Xray is talked about at lunch with the other doctors. “It was this big, and yet she was still breathing!” Yes, I can just imagine their happy talk at the doctor lunch table. Stupid doctor gossip.
I get breathing treatments with the Nebulizer. This sounds like a sci-fi term, but really it’s just a glorified air pump. I breathe this smoke stuff in and out. Thing One had to do this earlier, and delighted us with her Darth Vadar impersonations. “Luke, I am your father” and so forth. I do not do impressions.
I am also given my very own spitoon. It’s technically called a spectum collector, but basically it’s a funnel you spit in and they collect it. I don’t want to know what they do with my spit. What kind of job involves looking at spit? It occurs to me that I think doctors are worth every penny they make because there is no way I would ever, ever want to work with sick people or their spit.
More T.V. How can there be so many channels, and yet nothing on any of them? I’m assuming at one point the names of these channels meant something. For instance, the History Channel (new motto: history is made today so that means we can show you crap that has nothing to do with history) has stuff about how aliens constructed the pyramids. Or maybe that’s Discovery. One or both of those stations talk about aliens and Bigfoot and Mermaids. They have entire shows on this stuff. The producers wear tin foil hats, I think.
The best one, of course, is The Learning Channel where one can learn about freaks of all shapes and sizes. I decide on Amish freaks who come to New York. You’d never guess, but the Amish can be total jerks also. In no time, one of them is an alcoholic bouncing around on a stripper pole. Thank you, TLC, for being such a good influence. Clearly this is preferable to their life back on the farm without such necessities as reality TV.
At some point I give up and let dh flip channels while I attempt to sleep. He naturally turns to manly stations like those revolving around people digging for junk in storage lockers (there are several of these. Why?) or people digging for junk in old garages, or hillbillies fishing with or without poles and / or dynamite. Also, there’s the survival shows, like with expert Bear, who is all alone except for his wiles and oh yeah the camera crew. There are other survival shows besides this one. One has a husband and wife. Another has two guys, one of whom is a hippy with bare feet. Fascinating stuff.
The girls are shuttled to my parents to spend the night so dh can stay with me. He gets the recliner while I get the possessed bed. Back at the grandparents, I hear that Thing One (she’s 12) refuses to sleep with Thing Two (she’s 8) on account of sister cooties or something. Thing One is bugged that her routine is disrupted. Thing Two thinks she is on vacation, and has brought along a posse of stuffed animals. Sleeping accommodations are set, though I doubt anyone actually sleeps well. Except the stuffed animals, maybe.
Saturday (Ding din. . . oh forget it)
I am released from the hospital that afternoon with about a billion prescriptions and random orders that neither dh nor I remember. I am scheduled to see my GP a week from Tuesday, because who needs vacation time, right? Actually, I am relieved, because I’m pretty sure that if they sent me to work at this point, I’d spend the day drooling on my computer, I mean more than usual, and more than likely would end up stapling my coworker’s head at some point. Better for all to rest.
And get better. They keep mentioning this, but I have yet to experience it. Luckily, I am not at all patient. We will see. Home accommodations are not as cool as the hospital ones, even with the IV. Perhaps I will swallow a puzzle piece.