I wake frequently at hotel-y place. 3am, 5am, etc. Humid. Air conditioner is loud and ineffective. Weird dreams. Also, my Dad, who stays with me, MIGHT talk in his sleep. And shout, occasionally.
7:30: up for good. Walk down the street to Starbucks. Go full throttle with a venti dark and a pumpkin scone.
7:45: into the ICU hospital room. Plunk down my crap in a little nook there. Plug in computer/phone to charge.
8:00-ish: talk to neuro doctor who comes in to check on things. He says he's fine with how things are looking and it's likely Ian will get his filter and be moved to a step-down floor "soon." (by now, we know that soon means at least this WEEK. But not necessarily today, or even tomorrow.) But that's "vascular's department and they will make that call."
8:30a-1p: Listen to nurse banter (fun!). Text folks. Answer emails. Play Candy Crush. Continuously scan Facebook. Color pages in my grown-up coloring book. Give Ian a "sponge bath." Have lunch in the hospital cafeteria. Wander around hospital gift shop, hoping something magically appears that wasn't there the last 15 times. (nope)
1-something: Ian has several scans of legs and arm and heart to be sure there are no other clots or heart issues. We are assured all is clear.
3:00: still waiting for one set of people to talk to another set of people to okay the filter and/or the move.
Ian: mostly sleeps. Does not eat, as he's "going to have a procedure soon" and cannot have food in him at that time ... so hasn't eaten since dinner last night. Nurses come in and out to check his drain(s), ask him if he's ok, give him meds.
4:10: Audrey calls to sob about not wanting to go to karate and being depressed and feeling sick and "what if I freak out at karate? and we're doing a project at school can I glue that book to it? and I just really don't like karate because I get hot and sweaty and when I know we're going I get all anxious about it at school (Depression is something real but not scary and something that would be understandable, but in your case, all of this sucks and you're sad about it, and that's normal. And you're going to karate tonight.) and Ezra said this house is boring and I told him mom was going to make him scrub toilets and he said, 'She's not even here.'"
He's right. I'm not.
Texts: How are you? How is Ian? Can I talk to him on the phone? Do you need anything? Is it okay to visit tonight?
4:45: still no food, still no procedure. Ian throws an (bed-ridden) hissy fit.
Rachel proceeds to have her first? meltdown this round, in the privacy of a depressing waiting room bathroom. The man is in mortal danger several times this summer and he's in a snit about a freaking sandwich?! I'm sitting in the ICU ALL DAY watching HIM watch absolutely NOTHING happen for 24 hours, while attempting to parent my children by phone. Yeah, I'm a little irritated, too, but what is there to do about it? Shall I shovel a cookie into him and tell the people they can wait on that procedure till tomorrow? (which, oh by the way, is either essential and life saving or it's not ... I can't get a clear picture on how interested they are in even DOING it, let alone when it might happen).
5:20: Snazzy suit doctor with gold (no kidding) stethoscope makes his daily check-in to make sure we have no infectious diseases. We don't.
5:30 Nurse comes in and explains all the phone calls she's made today trying to get this all taken care of (I've heard her do so. She's been trying. And she's very nice, and competent).
At this point we think it's unlikely they'd do the filter today anyway. So we've "fasted" a whole day to no end. Food still hasn't been approved, but we (and by "we," I mean the nursing staff and me and Ian) are likely to proceed with abandon at victuals by 6.
I'll sit here a few more hours, his dad will arrive, my dad will arrive, we'll all sit and watch him sleep some more, then head to our respective spots and do it all again tomorrow.
Except, I hope, for the meltdowns.