In what has become a 2014 tradition for me, I got released from the hospital a few hours ago. A severe case of cellulitis, lower right leg. While the left leg is still in the process of healing a substantial DVT. Adding in the particularly horrible little curse I have, teh diabeetus, health care professionals reacted excitedly.
Overnight Sunday through this AM, a blur - I respond very poorly to narcotic painkillers. (Sweetheart can take oxycodone and do beadwork; I take mere vicodin and forget what vision smells like.)
As IV antibiotics in adorable quantities started making some difference yesterday, I noticed an annoying little cough, which before too dreadfully long turned into a rather frightening difficulty breathing. One freakout, set of bloodwork, and chest x-ray later, I've added the Flu A to my facebook favorites. My sweetheart, 3 nights by me nearly constantly, royal pain in the ass to nurses, doctors, custodians and food services, had been a champ, but by this morning I'd re-payed her. With the Flu. Fudge.
We're back now, my leg looking like roadkill, feeling like a chew toy, only reluctantly supporting my somewhat dizzy body, and with a remarkable stew of pharmaceuticals floating through my bloodstream. My wife out cold under 170p.s.i. of blankets. I'm only up for a bit yet, due to pill scheduling that will overrule my typical routine for the next few days, but I've managed to hit a few personal perennial Christmas traditions tonight.
I kind of wish my new 2014 traditions will die quietly and then spontaneously combust in a bucket of gasoline on the floor of the oxygen tank storage room for the maintenance shop at the flour mill. But Christmas, shit. Still love it, and no fucking medical bullshit gets to take it. And since it is, right now, Central Standard Time, midnight,
MERRY PASTAMAS TO ALL, AND AL DENTE GOOD NIGHT!