I am still mad about my hospital visit. Last night I found a message on my phone from a social worker who talked about Phil being released early next week and setting up rides to the infusion center. I’ve already had a mutual therapeutic rant about social workers with my sister-in-law, so I’ll spare you that. I felt next week was too soon last night, and from what I saw today, I felt even more so! The classes were cancelled without them calling me which really upset me. I could have had the lady who took me to the bank bring me home instead of incurring a $15 cab ride.
However, in some ways, it’s good I went. Phil was being prepared to go down to dialysis, and I waited with him for twenty minutes before transport showed up. Initially the plan was for me to go down with him to visit. The man couldn’t talk to me for more than a minute or two without falling asleep. When breathing out, he would moan every time, and I’m guessing this was because of the visual and tactile hallucinations from pain medication. He managed to answer my question about infusion enough, so I could talk intelligently to his nurse later. When transport came to get him, I decided I needed to stay behind and talk to his nurse. I was in tears. I told her in no uncertain terms that I didn’t want to see him come home like that. I told her if he was going to have to take rides to infusion in the morning and dialysis at night acting like a zombie, he didn’t belong at home. She agreed and reassured me he wouldn’t come home in that condition. In fact, they want him up and around and are going to be reducing the pain medication to have that happen. I’d rather have him have a little pain than not be able to advocate for himself. He is not moving from that floor yet, and I agree he needs more attention than on a regular floor. His family will be on board with a few more calls to try to keep him awake especially tomorrow.