Tuesday night, August 8
If one paid attention to Moon Unit Zappa, being "totally tubular" was a good thing. I happen to like "What Do You Want From Life?" by "The Tubes," myself. Mom's tubes however have been far from "bitchin'" and all things considered "gagging her with a spoon," because she can't "go to the galleria."
She is, at the very least, now freed from the finger-pinching, red lit oxygen monitor (on her "E.T." finger.) And able to take another significant baby step: sips of water. And she's increasing her lung power day by day.
She still 24 hours later hasn't had the new socks put on. (If you want something done ... ask a nurse. If they dont do it ... ask another nurse.) Marla got the new ones in the room and on her desk last night, but James/Eddie at least got the old socks off tonight.
The clear plastic "how much can you breathe" machine has a name -- Incentive Spurometer (which i think was one of Groucho Marx's names in "A Night at the Opera." Does it spur her on? If not, I'm pretty sure they have actual spurs in one of the cabinets outside.
I brought the dog, a few rainbows from last night to mom via the laptop. I waited until after the new blonde nurse, aka "todays nurse," was in to check pulse, blood pressure. Not knowing if I'd raise or lower it with thoughts of forbidden pleasures, of a sort.
Bad ideas run in the family, it's not just my brother. My paranoid hypochondriac jailbird / explosives expert / detective / vet / uncle's common law wife calls mom daily with each new illness / calamity (she fell and broke her $400 Walmart recliner, which they bought rather than having ... running water). An actual sister in law (Dad's side) also called tonight to share her misery (breathing, back problems).
In other good news, we can have a home care nurse in to change bags and dressings for... "a while." I've completely changed my mind about Medicare/Medicaid buying one of these $3,000 souped up Rascal/Hoverround electric go-cart "mobility" chairs. A debate should never be made personal.
Mom assumes her back is a mess with all the taping of tubes and itching an epidural. Oh, and wiping out every message from every "ABC AfterSchool Special" -- "Morphine is really nice."
The bride and groom motorcyclists, who were hit by a truck on their way to the Sturgis Rally have been released. Every other day there's an empty bed closer to the window with each new roommate heading home after a single day. Maybe mom should switch beds when they ask. With a semi-private room it's easier to determine that she's the person with somethign beeping. Tonight's weird new alarm? Well that just means this device has it's got a low battery and needs to be plugged into the wall. (Should we ask why it's not always hooked into the wall?)
And another advance just as we leave for the night ... apple juice!
If one paid attention to Moon Unit Zappa, being "totally tubular" was a good thing. I happen to like "What Do You Want From Life?" by "The Tubes," myself. Mom's tubes however have been far from "bitchin'" and all things considered "gagging her with a spoon," because she can't "go to the galleria."
She is, at the very least, now freed from the finger-pinching, red lit oxygen monitor (on her "E.T." finger.) And able to take another significant baby step: sips of water. And she's increasing her lung power day by day.
She still 24 hours later hasn't had the new socks put on. (If you want something done ... ask a nurse. If they dont do it ... ask another nurse.) Marla got the new ones in the room and on her desk last night, but James/Eddie at least got the old socks off tonight.
The clear plastic "how much can you breathe" machine has a name -- Incentive Spurometer (which i think was one of Groucho Marx's names in "A Night at the Opera." Does it spur her on? If not, I'm pretty sure they have actual spurs in one of the cabinets outside.
I brought the dog, a few rainbows from last night to mom via the laptop. I waited until after the new blonde nurse, aka "todays nurse," was in to check pulse, blood pressure. Not knowing if I'd raise or lower it with thoughts of forbidden pleasures, of a sort.
Bad ideas run in the family, it's not just my brother. My paranoid hypochondriac jailbird / explosives expert / detective / vet / uncle's common law wife calls mom daily with each new illness / calamity (she fell and broke her $400 Walmart recliner, which they bought rather than having ... running water). An actual sister in law (Dad's side) also called tonight to share her misery (breathing, back problems).
In other good news, we can have a home care nurse in to change bags and dressings for... "a while." I've completely changed my mind about Medicare/Medicaid buying one of these $3,000 souped up Rascal/Hoverround electric go-cart "mobility" chairs. A debate should never be made personal.
Mom assumes her back is a mess with all the taping of tubes and itching an epidural. Oh, and wiping out every message from every "ABC AfterSchool Special" -- "Morphine is really nice."
The bride and groom motorcyclists, who were hit by a truck on their way to the Sturgis Rally have been released. Every other day there's an empty bed closer to the window with each new roommate heading home after a single day. Maybe mom should switch beds when they ask. With a semi-private room it's easier to determine that she's the person with somethign beeping. Tonight's weird new alarm? Well that just means this device has it's got a low battery and needs to be plugged into the wall. (Should we ask why it's not always hooked into the wall?)
And another advance just as we leave for the night ... apple juice!
posted by Thomas @ 9:19 PM
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