this year is the worst year
Jul. 14th, 2020 07:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theladysnarkydame My husband is in the hospital. In the ICU. Things don't look great.
There's a bleed in his brain, in a place where they can't operate without doing more damage, and they have to keep him sedated so that his sky rocketing blood pressure doesn't make it worse. I haven't been able to talk to him since I found him, unconscious, on the floor when I got home from work on Saturday.
I'm the only one who can visit right now -- because of Covid-19 the hospital has drastically limited visitors. I couldn't even trade off visiting hours with his family, should they fly in from the midwest, because in order to facilitate contact tracing, ICU patients are limited to one, designated, visitor for the duration. And that's me.
Which means I'm trying to pass along information to his dad in Minnesota, and his mom in Missouri. To our best friend in Kansas, to my family in Missouri, to his work friends here, to my boss here. . .
And as the outcome looks bleaker, what the fuck do I say over the phone. How the fuck do I tell his dad that his only son may very well not wake up. Or if he does, may need permanent long term care. What the fuck do I say. How the fuck do I do this.
Unless the doctors are wrong, and he recovers within a few months, we will surely lose the house. I can't pay the mortgage on my own. I'm trying not to let that worry interfere with the other already horrible worries but my head is spinning. And everytime I come home for a few hours, to shower and feed the cats, to try to decompress, I find myself simply thinking
Chad loves this place. He's so proud of the work we've done here. This is OUR place, we belong here. We wanted to live our lives here.
He should be here.
Talking to me.
What the fuck do I do.
There's a bleed in his brain, in a place where they can't operate without doing more damage, and they have to keep him sedated so that his sky rocketing blood pressure doesn't make it worse. I haven't been able to talk to him since I found him, unconscious, on the floor when I got home from work on Saturday.
I'm the only one who can visit right now -- because of Covid-19 the hospital has drastically limited visitors. I couldn't even trade off visiting hours with his family, should they fly in from the midwest, because in order to facilitate contact tracing, ICU patients are limited to one, designated, visitor for the duration. And that's me.
Which means I'm trying to pass along information to his dad in Minnesota, and his mom in Missouri. To our best friend in Kansas, to my family in Missouri, to his work friends here, to my boss here. . .
And as the outcome looks bleaker, what the fuck do I say over the phone. How the fuck do I tell his dad that his only son may very well not wake up. Or if he does, may need permanent long term care. What the fuck do I say. How the fuck do I do this.
Unless the doctors are wrong, and he recovers within a few months, we will surely lose the house. I can't pay the mortgage on my own. I'm trying not to let that worry interfere with the other already horrible worries but my head is spinning. And everytime I come home for a few hours, to shower and feed the cats, to try to decompress, I find myself simply thinking
Chad loves this place. He's so proud of the work we've done here. This is OUR place, we belong here. We wanted to live our lives here.
He should be here.
Talking to me.
What the fuck do I do.
