30 September 2020
Sorry it's been a few days (although you could probably use the break). But herewith, I'll carry on.
The air quality took a dive and we stayed indoors. The last couple of days the fog rescued us (until today) but it was too cold for Joyce to take her walk.
Last night Alpha the physical therapist called to see about restarting some exercise. She herself isn't available until next week, which worked out fine for Joyce.
Joyce had been saying she wanted to start it again this week but last night, weary and depressed, she told Alpha she wasn't ready. I yelled and screamed and hit my head on the ceiling, though, and she changed her mind. I was carrying on, you might say.
Yesterday was just a bad day all around.
I opened the last case of canisters (five to a box) and told Joyce it was time to reorder. She went into a panic about it, even though she placed the order herself last time.
Yesterday was just a bad day all around.
And through the evening, she worried about it, trying to text Apria. You have to call them and go through an interview about Covid and your doctor and your treatment each time. The she started worrying what the phone number is.
It's been a very curious experience dealing with her mental state.
She had some issues before the surgery. She would tell me she felt she was losing her mind. Getting dementia. And there were indeed some troubling signs. I was surprised at the things she was forgetting.
Of course, she was battling constant infections in her leg during that time. Not to mention her impossible work situation, waiting for the new owners to lower the boom on an unproductive office where she was so busy correcting the sales staff's mistakes all day long that she had no time to make any of her own.
So after the surgery I was encouraged when she sounded like her old self again. Now and then. I really did wonder if the infections had disabled her.
But the anesthesia took a toll. A slightly different one but a toll all the same.
She would forget she was tethered to the Wound VAC's power adapter to charge the battery. Or plug the adaper into the Wound VAC but not the electrical outlet. Or forget she had to take the Wound VAC with her when she left the room.
A week or so after she came home, she decided to make brunch as she had for years. Either lox and bagels or scrambled eggs with green onions and lox. She decided to do the eggs.
But she forgot all about the green onions and the lox. And sprinkled grated cheese on the eggs. The bagels, which were usually toasted, were oddly cut apart too, as if she hadn't used a knife, and cold as the grave, the butter sitting on top of them like tombstones.
Now that, I was sure, was just the anesthesia. She'd never done anything like that before.
And just to confirm my diagnosis, this Sunday she made the scrambled eggs just like she always had. Carrying on a long tradition.
So there's reason to hope we'll get through this fog just by carrying on.
Of course there's that other specter in the room. Depression.
She spends the day sitting in front of the television or lying in bed. I'm hoping getting some exercise and taking longer walks will pick up her spirits. Right now, the depression is debilitating.
She does pick up when Salwa comes by. They have a lively conversation (because Salwa is a talker). It's just too bad friends can't safely visit. That will help when we get there.
Now you're probably glad you haven't heard from me for a few days, right? I do carry on, don't I?