Chirp-free

 

Peter’s still in hospital.  The second lot of tests finally found what the doctors were looking for and yes, it was a small stroke.  Which tells them what they need to be doing . . . which appears to be a whole new round of tests.  And adjusting the physio they’d already started him on.  They’ve also set him up with various new meds. . . .

But they still won’t tell me when I can bring him home.  The doctor was so relentlessly noncommittal when I spoke to her this morning I’m kind of guessing it won’t be tomorrow either.  Meanwhile they’ve shut visiting hours down to one hour in the evening because there’s too much flu around.*  When I went in tonight—assuming that Arkham Sanatorium Car Park would be a bloodbath from everyone trying to visit in the same tiny time slot—I parked midtown and walked up.  It’s only nineteen miles.  Straight up hill.  With tigers.**  And you have to bring your own supplementary oxygen.  Oh, and did I mention the gales?  Yes.  We’d had a sunny, hurtling-friendly day and I’d taken hellhounds, who do not find caroming off the walls indoors amusing, out into the countryside.  LITERALLY THE MOMENT I was putting my shoes on and checking my knapsack for books and knitting this evening . . . the gales with lashing rain returned.  Frelling frelling frelling.  That walk uphill didn’t need tigers.  And in fact they all stayed home in their nice dry caves with the fitted carpet and satellite TV.

But Peter is still in hospital. ***  I hate hospitals.  I know they’re a lot better than not having hospitals . . . but I still hate hospitals.

I’m pretty chirp-free tonight.

But thank you for all the good thoughts and prayers.  They really do make a difference.

* * *

* I don’t follow the logic.  Isn’t exposure the critical factor?  Or are you that much likelier to catch/spread it if you’re sharing air/doorknobs for three or six hours instead of only one?

** Midtown parking does, however, become free at 6 pm, which solves the pitiless exact and sufficient change problem^.  The hospital car park charges 24/7.  I think it charges more on Sundays and holidays and there’s a surcharge for every pushchair.  If you have infant triplets you’re going to need a bank loan.  As well as a donkey to carry the large jingling panniers of change.

^ And a good thing too since I’d managed to forget to get any more.  There is no longer anywhere in this frelling town that I can buy a newspaper—ie Peter’s GUARDIAN—that will let me bring a dog or dogs inside.  By the time I’ve finished two shifts of hurtling I’ve forgotten that I have errands.  So a big FAIL on this one.

*** It’s funny the things that don’t happen by magic when he’s not here.  Taking the garbage out, for example.  I nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to find the CORRECT replacement white plastic liner for the basic kitchen dustbin.  Apparently Peter has a Drastically Various Sizes of Dustbin Fetish—I never knew—with a roll of white plastic bags for each.