Thank you, and good night!

Okay, first off? I don't even recognize the preceding two posts. I am leaving them as "published drafts" because I do discern a barely familiar intent from which something might be salvaged. Not tonight, however.

I finally managed, through the magic of pharmaceuticals, to string together a three hour nap. The difference in mentation is remarkable! Several times, my own snoring almost roused me but I fought off the urge.

The medical folks who people my world are wonderful and why I do not remember their sincere dedication to helping me, I don't understand. Some of it has to do with constantly second-guessing myself. Some of it has to do with trust. Most of it is some sort of overblown pride.

Fred has been having A Day. That means -- in La Bianca shorthand -- that Fred is struggling with all that he must do versus the imperious demands of ADHD.

We needed to leave The Manor -- and that means through The Spikes and across The Moat -- at 11:30 am. I woke him in dulcet tones at 10 am, using naught but tender terms of endearment. Even so, he refused to exit the warm bed until I had furnished coffee and two perfectly cold slices of pizza pie. Finally opening both eyes at once, he ambled off in skips and hops across the cold 16th century stone paving and the fancy linoleum -- Welsh deo gratias tiles -- that leads the way to his office, where he plops down in front of his computer. This does not bode well for a timely departure, plus he is mumbling something about having my Go-To-Guy Doctor, now known simply as The Boutiqueur, learn what it feels like to wait. A noble sentiment in some farflung context, I am sure, but not in the realm of our experience with The Boutiqueur... and certainly not a position Fred has any right to adopt!

We were cooking with gas but with no food in sight.

At 11:22 am, Fred fairly flies across my field of vision and the knot in my stomach relaxes -- until I hear him cursing and see envelopes and other scraps of paper swirl upward in small vortices from the oddly planed oak wardrobe. There's nothing like tornadoes in the bedroom.

We have the following conversation:
Me: Whatcha doin?
Fred: What does it look like?
Me: We need to leave in seven minutes.
Fred: I am doing something important.
Me: Can I help?
Fred: No, you can't help.
Me: Well, at least tell me what is wrong...
Fred: I cannot find my VISA bill.
Me: Is that something that absolutely has to be done in the next seven... no, six... minutes?
Fred: {glares}
Me: Maybe I can help you find it when we get back over The Moat this afternoon.
Fred: {glaring} Fine. [He grabs a pair of wide-waled peat-colored corduroy pants and a mustard-colored denim shirt and sprints for the bathroom. Whew...]

Humming and packing up my Stuff, I hear the shower start. Between his putty skin, the peat pants, and the mustard shirt... I hope his colors run and smear.

We got there with five minutes to spare, although that included a brief stint between two tankers while the Fredster ate some of the aforementioned pizza pie and steered, if it can be called that, with his knees.

The Boutiqueur is now back in charge of my "case." We put our pointy heads together over the minutiae of my bone and joint infections, over the lacunae of information identifying the offending pathogen(s), over Fred's level of frustration, and over my bossy bitchiness.

He fears the overuse of vancomycin -- I am on my second six week course of receiving it via the PICC line, and they just hiked the dose to twice a day, even though my trough level was "normal."

He agrees with InfectiousDisease Man that the spacer impregnated with antibiotics that was inserted in August is now nothing more than a germ magnet and ought to be removed. (My index finger was wavering and waving in the air at that... but my lips seemed to be glommed together with pastry cream.)

My WBC count is 16,500. The CRP is still elevated (and the sed rate still NORMAL! How utterly odd...). No fever in the office... but back at the ranch, it shot up to 100.6.

It felt great to hear him think out loud, which let me relax, reassured that someone with plenty of brain power and compassion was there so that I could check out and put my resources toward something recuperative. Like a nap.

He has a notation in my voluminous chart (something I find very embarrassing) that when given things such as Ambien, I do NOT sleep and report "feeling weird." I do not recall this but he nods sagely and wonders aloud if there might not be something already in my "arsenal" that might work well to break the cycle of insomnia. We hit on amitriptyline and so I will try adding 100 mg tonight.

[Note that on the hint of a promise, alone, I was able to grab three hours!]

Ruby the Honda CR-V flew down the road -- zoom zoom zoom -- and I visited for a few minutes with Dr. PainDude's PA, who then gifted me with the month's worth of pain medicine. She used to work for the brother of my OS, and regaled me with funny stories of their apparently legendary antics.

Tomorrow? InfectiousDisease Man, blood draw (unless my PICC will give as well as receive, which it would not last week), a hair trim, and home.

I don't feel very hopeful when I look at my medical situation -- but I respect the hope I have seen in other people throughout the day -- and I love my Fred, and acknowledge his frustrations as being something seen only in people consumed with the rigors of breathing in, breathing out.

I am very lucky.

Thank you, and good night!