I'm Not OK

I normally write in the evenings.  But it's 6:30 a.m. and I woke up crying.

I feel like Mirabel in the movie Encanto - she dances around the town, singing her cheerful song of "I'm OK" and then finally segues into "I'm not OK."

I look around.  I slept on the couch again, Hamish against me.  But I had to get up to answer the call of nature around 5 and he left and after that I couldn't really get back to sleep.  I missed his warmth.  I see signs of not being OK - I'm not much of a tidy person, but usually there's not a box of crackers and dirty dishes on the coffee table, nor candy and Twinkie wrappers on the floor.

But I'll dry my tears, feed the cats and the chickens, have tea and breakfast, and go to work.  I have been working Tuesdays and Wednesdays - and had asked for this week off because I know myself.  I didn't want to find myself crying in front of people.  I might have been able to control that.  But I also feel that I would be talking incessantly about Bob to my young co-workers and that could get uncomfortable. Besides, I somehow feel I've earned a couple of moping days.  But I got switched from Wednesdays to Mondays, and Laura was sweet enough to ask if I would be able to work today and I told her sure, I would be OK.

Don't know if I'll write tonight.  Today, March 28, 2020.  Bob is back in intensive care (where there might be more emergency help if needed but ironically his regular care is worse and I'm doing all of it).  I'm exhausted, emotionally of course, but also physically.  There hasn't been much sleep in the last few days.  Bob is fretful. Always wanting something, not knowing what it is.  I've been on my feet for hours.  He finally settles down.  I tiptoe to the chair, start to sink down.  My bottom almost touches the chair when I hear the "Annie."

And I heave a great sigh.  I will always feel bad about that, because he apologized and I was no no no no no I"m sorry I didn't mean it.

We're both so tired.  It's Saturday.  Sunday he will have his pick lines removed (they'e infected) and replaced on the other side.  Go to dialysis.  Monday he'll get the biopsy.  Wednesday he'll be handed his death sentence.  Then we'll wait while they try to keep him alive.

Some time later he rears himself up on his elbows and yells "WHY DO I HAVE  TO WAIT??"  I ask him what he means.  He said "It's over.  Let it be over."  I tell him that they have to check, have the biopsy, maybe the transplant might still take.  He shakes his head.  "No.  I'm too broken.  I can't come back from this.  It's over."  

We ask for a doctor.  Talk about stopping treatments.  He agrees (too readily - doctors usually fight until the end.  But this is the end).  Going on morphine.  Finally I look at both of them.  "I'm exhausted.  I've had maybe three hours of sleep in the last two days.  I can't make this decision tonight."  I look at Bob.  "I'm sorry - but please please give me one more day."   Covid is also complicating things.  ICU is where they try to keep people alive.  I don't know anything about hospice care in Gainesville.  And none of the usual protocols for transferring patients is in place, or having hospice accept people.  The doctor tells me we can do palliative care down there (why are ICU's in the basement?).  We agree - no moving of the pick line, no dialysis.  I've bought a little time to think.   I go to the hotel room, have a glass of sherry, try to grasp what's happening, and sleep for a few hours.

2022.  It's now 7 a.m.  I have to leave in an hour, so much shove little Stumbles off my lap and get everyone fed.  Go to work and have some fun with the animals and my co-workers.  Maybe some more garden work this afternoon.

I'll be OK.