Nobody in their right mind should attempt to write something up when they feel like I do.
But since I am not in my right mind, I thought I would give it a go.
I am pretty beat. Tired. Tuckered out. I went down to Houston last Thursday to be with Cammie and Judy. Steph was there already and was going to come back on Thursday. She elected to stay another day and spent the night with Cammie and left Friday morning. She was pooped. And on Friday Judy spent the night with Cammie and on Saturday I could see she was all done in so I spent Saturday night with Cammie. And Judy was still pretty tired, so (he-man that I am) I volunteered to spend Sunday night as well. And left Monday to come back to Dallas. Amanda goes down tomorrow.
So, what is so difficult and tiring about spending a night or two at the hospital? I mean, they do give you a chair that folds out flat to sleep on and it is pretty comfortable. (All you nurses can stop snickering since I know you know the answer.) It is because you get very little sleep. You lay down, are just about to drift off when the light goes on, in someone comes to (please select one or more of the following): a) give pills; b) check on a beeping monitor; c) empty the Foley (this is the bag where the urine collects. It is dumped into a large plastic container that looks like a beer stein—kinda—and when I said “cheers” to one nurse as she was carting it to the toilet she almost lost it); d) do vitals; e) respond to Cammie’s request for a “bolis” (an extra push of pain medication); f) numerous other things I forget because I was so out of it.
All I can say is that unless you are used to constant interrupted sleep you are going to get very little indeed. You are going to wake up feeling jet lag without going anywhere. (Question: Can this possibly be good for the patient?). And I can tell you something else. Loss of sleep promotes loss of sanctification. There is a direct correlation. Trust me.
Meanwhile, Cammie has twelve (count them) tubes of various sorts either sticking into her or coming out of her in a variety of places. Half of those are drainage tubes or her catheter, and the rest either monitor her in various ways, or are there for oxygen, for pain (an epidural—which came out yesterday) or for administering medications (a port). Her pole looks like someone threw spaghetti at it. Mysteriously, these tubes seem to entangle themselves and at least once a day someone has to untangle them.
Apart from the pain and discomfort, things are going pretty well. There has been a persistent low-grade fever. And the doctor has been hoping the liver will float into the space that is now available to it…and yesterdays CT scan shows that it has.
And through it all Cammie maintains a sense of peace and joy. She calls everyone by name. She thanks them for the most painful procedure. She would laugh more if it didn’t hurt so much. And she does not complain. She does not complain about the pain. She does not complain about the interrupted sleep. She does not complain about her lot in life or having to be there in the first place.
It would seem your prayers are working.
Maybe I should get you to think about re-directing them towards me. Because right now I am feeling a bit ticked, and a lot cantankerous. Fortunately, in my case, a little more sleep will do the trick.