6 August 2020
Chatted with Joyce this afternoon but she could hardly speak. She's feeling a lot more pain today, she said.
The staff, who she just loves, comes in regularly to see how she's doing. They tried to get her up today, but she just couldn't manage to get out of bed yet.
"We'll try again tomorrow," they told her.
I asked her if they were checking her pain level.
"All the time," she said.
"And what do you tell them? Nine? Ten?"
"Eleven. Twelve," she said.
Dinner is around 5:30 or 6:00. Three squares a day, although she isn't eating much. I suggested she order Mike Kloess' recommendation: a bourbon.
She just might.
She's getting mail (a card, it looks like, from Alana in Texas) but I have no way to get it to her.
Meanwhile Kaiser keeps calling here for her to prep her for tomorrow's surgery. I'm tempted to do my Church Lady impersonation and pretend to be Joyce so they tell me and quit calling.
I have a hunch they'll prep her for it in the hospital.