Medical

needs: meds in the hospital

It’s a hospital and I expect there will be meds for days. Chocolate milk, doctors who don’t look like McDreamy or McSteamy, paper hats that never hold all the vomit, blue plastic sheets that don’t catch all the wee, folders with my girls name, upside down watch broaches, lanyards covered in clacking stuff, menacing clowns and meds for days, or so I thought.

Time runs differently, slow and fast forward. Too much time without answers and not enough time for big decisions. In ED they assured me they would have her meds on the ward. Hospitals disorientate my straight arrow and I now reliant on their information as I forfeited my own.

Breakfast was wheeled in and I asked the nurse for the meds. She said she would check the chart but didn’t return. Doctors came in packs for all too brief rounds and the meds slipped to the back of my mind as they opened the menu of next steps: cat scan, MRI, a new line, some bloods, nil by mouth. I forgot about meds.

Two hours later and still no meds. My girl was strapped to a spinal board so the usual risk had dimmed. The worst had happened so the meds to prevent the worse seemed futile. I asked the nurse again who scanned the chart and said “No, not here”. My panic caused me to pause. paused. Gently, in a sad “like me, like me” way I suggested we get them charted, and a doctor was called and a pharmacist and a…

It wasn’t the familiar 200 mg tablet, there was a liquid and a lot of it to equal her dose. Knowing she would take her lead from me, I brushed over it. Sure, she can take it like that, she’s great with meds and she smiled as much as a kid strapped to a spinal board and loaded on painkillers can. I mean Velcro across your curls really does bring the smile out in everyone.

The thing is after being on a spinal board- which is exactly what needed to happen – her stomach wasn’t used to taking meds. There was vomit- from lying on her back, in her hair and eye balls… and nurses running and a 6 person roll to avoid choking. It was a peak time- peak in panic and peak in helplessness and peak in fear- and after? Well after, she smelt like vomit, and didn’t have her meds in her belly but she was okay and someone else had a code rainbow.

Nurses surf in and ride the waves with us. Quickly she was cleaned up, not just a washer, new sheets, new robe, some clever weird shampoo in a shower cap and settled. It was as if it never happened, except well… the meds. And it was the nurses who said right, let’s work this out, and as they set about sorting charting my beloved walked in with the pouch of meds from home.

needs: A day off.

I didn’t mean to give her a day off meds. I didn’t know I had. A stumble here, a difficulty with a hot chocolate there and I twigged. “Did we forget your meds?” It was “we” because they only get forgotten when there is two of us. As if the safe landing of having my beloved around allowed me to drop my guard. As we are both busy relying on each other to remember her meds, they fall through the trap door between us. I might have even said: “did you forget your meds?” as if that shared blame could dilute my guilt. It’s not on her to remember, anything. We have a report somewhere that says so.

We live a long way away from the things we do. It’s more regional than remote, but it feels very remote when you can’t go home for meds. We all sucked in our worry and silently missed the meds- but would we really miss the meds? That thought popped in and out, quickly.

Either way I made an adjustment, held her close, invisibly tethered. In doing so I cast his line further out into the world. He has the sure footing of a kid who doesn’t need meds. Under my skin, the current rippled, my inner “guard” stood invisibly tall. Outwardly, I shunned helicopter city. I raised my sail to navigate the day, a step toward safety, a step away from danger, one eye on the horizon for a storm, with the other on the deep blue, setting a course for fun. She doesn’t see the storm, doesn’t feel the safety net spun from fine thread, as clear as water. Tomorrow when she has her meds, the net won’t be there and today I want her brave.

As the day passes, there are falls; we are quick to force a laugh and a give it a rub. There are pauses where she doesn’t quite know what comes next, the fork or the food near it, but she will get there, we can take time. I am wavering, borderline panic as she takes so so long in the toilet, possibly gazing at the paper dispenser she knew so well yesterday, but now for this 30 seconds, 400 seconds 10 minutes looks as indecipherable as Manga is for Grandma.

But what I didn’t expect, was a lightness in her, a happiness, a laughter, an awe and wonder that just popped up. A spot of happy, curiosity and a trickster emerge. I held her close as we watched tv that night and while the characters didn’t repulse her as they normally do, and the funnies were caught by her without a cringe I did ponder on whether the meds were taking the magic away. (Oh.. calm down, I’m not going to go there)

And then my breath sharply sucks inward. Remembering my turned head, when her hand slipped from mine and she stepped into traffic. There was a honk she didn’t hear and a scream from me that pierced the clouds above. Yes. I knew we needed the meds for that second, for that danger. But shit it was awesome to see her smile lightly, brightly that day.