I hope you have enjoyed the hiatus of posting here at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé.et la seine? elle est toujours belle, elle. malgré moi, elle l'est.
The silence is squashed. I was discharged yesterday afternoon, and while still not quite settled back into home life, Fred and I are slowly finding answers and sly techniques to get me and us through this... Time.
Ce Temps -- Majuscule.
Unfortunately, my left shoulder prosthesis is not back with me. Heart/San Francisco. Shoulder/Tête de Hergé. You can't always get what you want...
Surgery on Monday went well, in the sense that the orthopedic surgeon got me through it in great shape and did what he had to do, with panache and one arm tied behind his back.
He's very talented, and somehow "more" than a specialized surgeon -- meaning no disrespect to any other surgeons out there. Most of the orthopedic surgeons I have met are intensely disinterested in the "medical" side of my care, to the extent of neglecting it. Not so with ShoulderMan. He is on top of things and looks a bit askance when I bring up medical concerns. Still, given that *he* is the anomaly, the practice of doublechecking will not fade away any time soon.
Je reviens... Monday, late afternoon, in the hush of the surgical theatre: The prosthesis looked pretty good to him, as did the surrounding area -- not great but not nearly bad enough to explain such pain and dysfunction. He was about to wash it out and close me up when he decided to further check out the sturdiness of the prosthesis. It came loose too easily, so he proceeded to "ream" the shaft of the humerus -- as any talented ShoulderMan would do.
"It exploded with pus and gunk."
"Gunk" is a technical term and if you don't know what it means, well, I don't have time to walk you through Medical Terminology 101. Look it up. Live and learn. Walk and talk. Rock and roll.
The Christmas Mystery? Nothing will grow on the culture plates. Nothing. They are able to get MRSA from zeee nares and zeee skin -- but as for the actual Pus and Gunk? Nothing.
I confessed the pain of the left hip and the former right shoulder -- so they wrapped me up in a lovely off-the-shoulder yellow dress, a bit on the sheer side, with a lovely pair of blue gloves that gave my look the needed *pop* and off we went to interventional radiology in an attempt to aspirate yet more fluid. More Christmas Mystery, but perhaps the pains there can be dismissed due to bone-on-bone contact in the hip and overuse in the arm.
But my Infection Sensors are blipping and bleeping and splurching all over the doggone place. Still, there is nothing that can be done right now. A normal person would probably decide to relax and try to salvage the holiday spirit.
Cough.
We are throwing daily infusions of vancomycin at the invader(s). Six weeks of infusions through the PICC line. (If this were a freaking Gratitude Journal? tee hee! the position of the PICC line is sooooo much better than last time! and the roly-poly plastic balls of vancomycin? why, they're all gold and silver-like, as if jesus came down and gave a fluffy baby kiss on the cheap china plastic and poof! them balls, they turned into holy ornaments! poof! tee hee!)
Just like last time.
I am incredibly grateful to Dr. ShoulderMan, his PA, and his SuperDyke nurse. This does NOT go without saying. So be sure to say it.
The hospital staff? Not so great -- but as the PA said, the solution to that is quite simple: "stay out of the hospital." Wiser words were never said.
We posted signs that said "Please do not touch my legs or right arm without asking permission. I have CRPS Types 1 and 2. It is painful. Thank you."
Yes, you got it! It was like issuing a freaking invitation: Please touch my arms and legs -- pat them, swat them, stroke them -- Because when *you* do it, it doesn't hurt at all!
Anyway, I am home -- in lots of pain, extremely depressed, and challenged -- in those basic ways that ought to be second nature. Don't make me break out that gosh-darned Gratitude Journal shit. I am alive and not in a nursing home.
Yet.There are people who care, still. Which amazes me.
When did I begin to hate myself?
When did I begin to hate myself?
A great big thank you to Dr. ShoulderMan and staff, the ID people, and All the Intrepid Nurses.
Most of all... my Fred. Dancing around my hospital rooms -- snoring in their corners -- bringing me a piece of pecan pie under the frowning visage of the Diabetes Dominatrix -- enjoying the shows on Animal Planet that we don't get at home (even if the lion gets the baby antelope) -- helping me brush my teeth, letting me pull on him so as to sit on the side of the bed.
And Fred never laughs at my bedhead.
Which makes feeling suicidal a despicably selfish and amoral impetus.
