rough strife

howdy hi, there, buckaroos!

taking wednesday as reference point, some things are better and nothing is worse, so i'm declaring today a holiday.

when i shut my eyes last night, i was afraid.  my body was sending conflicting signals. doom doom THUD doom doom THUD pulsed my temples.  desperate for a cool cloth, or several, the terror of trying to stand up overruled all desire.  i made myself cry to release tension, then i slept.

the home-based wound care service hasn't happened yet and forms the basis of my anxiety of the moment.  i am employing the tried-and-true method of doing something to trump the nihilism of worry.  note that something does not entirely mean anything.

don't fall for corporate preciosity, dear buckaroos. at the LTAC [long term acute care], the reason they were stringing me along and refusing to discharge moi to marlinspike hall involved convoluted difficulties in arranging for wound care nurses to visit the manor.  insurance minutiae, complicated machinery, documents, manuals... i expected to hear "Best Practices" at any moment...

i was cowed by the evidence of the heroic effort being made on my behalf, but against the good judgment of the best medical minds housed within that five-floored, modular facility.

a plucky social worker, however, let slip that the problem involved the one home health agency with which the LTAC was contracted:  "the guy who does wound care is on vacation."

and so it was that i roared, and after roaring, left.

my MDVIP go-to-guy and his able sidekick had offered to help arrange for home health services once i flew the coop.  they're wonderful and they mean well... by which i mean, of course, that the first company they called didn't take my insurance -- and they didn't think to ask.  we live in different worlds, we do.  so, bushy-eyed and bright-tailed, i was up at 4 am yesterday, in anticipation of an "intake assessment" by wound management.

i ended up carefully rewetting the gauze crammed in the gaping maw of the incision... and blithely mouthing schtuff about sufficient unto the day, not borrowing trouble, sparrows, and lilies.

we've made progress today, but it's 3 something on a friday, when even the highways of tête de hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) can cause traffic headaches.

there was a fair amount of drainage, but it looked like innocent blood, and did not smell.  it itched like a mofo, but it did not smell.

with the exception of cramming gauze into the aforementioned gaping maw, i just copied the work of the LTAC's wound care specialist.  i was a nervous wreck.  i engaged in more negative self-talk than in the whole previous week.

maybe i'll get some help over the weekend.  if i infect this wound somehow, i will never forgive myself.  [yay! there is an agency wound care nurse coming tomorrow morning!]

the spasms returned, but the pain is less than it would be were i still trapped by a hospital bed, complete with rails, a bed frame,and a flying trapeze...

i need to rest now.  various sweetie-pies have told me that things get better after periods of rough strife*.

* i love lynne sharon schwartz... and recommend her novel, rough strife.  better than that, though?  disturbances in the field...

*To his Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell

[....]

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may;

And now, like am'rous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.

Let us roll all our strength, and all

Our sweetness, up into one ball;

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.