The Trinity of These Days

I am in denial.

Can vancomycin or cefepime, or a combination thereof, cause severe depression? Is it true that there is always a first time?

The day after I was home from the hospital, I decided to tell Fred about the growing and severe pain in my *left* shoulder, ending the admission with the happy understanding that in no way could it be related to infection of any sort.

His response was to say": "That is what I am talking about... We need to talk... I have been trying to have this conversation for a long time... What are we going to do when you get even worse? I can't take care of you. And who is going to take care of me?"

There was yelling and crying, on my part; Stalking off, on his.

And no one has discussed the pain in my shoulder. The *left* one. No, that's not true. He told me to tell my VIPMD, who did seem to take me seriously -- maybe.
After having pooh-poohed the symptoms of fever, pain, and fatigue for over a year that led, finally, to the discovery of a septic joint, I guess he must take me seriously. God forbid that I should simply inspire his attention. God forbid that simply my complaint should carry the day.

But instead of looking into it, he spun off into never-never-land, where shoulder pain devolves into... something to chart, something to watch, something to bury under the weight and mass of our present troubles.

I cannot reach across my body with that arm, cannot raise it above shoulder height. It throbs with no provocation, and hurts sharply with movement. And -- oh! -- does it get moved -- given that my right shoulder is, well, missing. I am extremely grateful to know that there is no infection -- an impossibility since I am on IV antibiotics -- and that the problem is probably "mechanical." The prosthesis must be loose.

(Yes, both shoulders were replaced. Along with a hip... which is doing marvelously. The other hip is pinned. One ankle is plated and screwed, as is the right elbow.)

The night that Fred and I had this most recent irrational (that is, rational to an *impossible* degree) spat, I relieved him of IV drug duty, although I had to wait two days for an extension to my PICC ports to be provided so that my right hand could reach the tubing. He had been ranting about having places to be, people to see, and the difficulty of doing so while tied to my antibiotic regimen. I believe I referenced his social schedule with a heavily ironic tone before promising to make the changes necessary to free up his dance card.

He said it was good to see me taking some "responsibility" for myself.

"But where does by far the bulk, the whole ambulance load, of pain really come from?"

Okay, so I have been waiting years to have some remote reason for quoting Salinger's Seymour, An Introduction -- this quote, in particular. That he references the pain of artists is no deterent to my citation. I am an artist. I am! Okay, already! Shut up, you.

Salinger is an indulgence that I am so sad to have outgrown. Or do I flatter myself?

Denial, depression, pain -- the trinity of this post. A touch of self-pity.

He woke me around 3 am because I was moaning in my sleep, rocking back and forth. Noon now, it is time to try for sleep once again, and to put all this to rest. Strict instructions shall be given to ignore any and all moans, any and all movements.

Denial, depression, pain -- the plan is to sleep off this shameful state, this wailing weakness.

As for the remnants of self-pity? It is a waking task, to take on that delusion. You've seen me tackle it before... and with such success, too. Hence the word "remnant."

Oops, time to flush my line and hook up to antibiotic number two...