Illness, illness everywhere, nor any time to drink...

My phone rang last night just before ten o'clock. I griped, silently, all the way to the kitchen wondering who in their right mind would call at such an hour. I even answered the phone with all of the sleepy voiced drama I could muster.

It was my dearest friend, Lynn*, calling with news about her son.

I'm so sorry I woke you but Cody* is not okay.

What does 'not okay' mean?

He's had a lot of chest pain and he's been passing out lately. He was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect.

Okay, so what does that that mean, break it down for me. Details.

It means that we're lucky he's alive. We're lucky he quit soccer-- the doctors don't know why he's been okay up 'til now. They can operate to fix it but Cody is terrified. He won't do it. He said he'll never do anything for the rest of his life; he'll hang out and not ride his bike and never take the stairs...

There was more conversation but it's all more than I feel needs to be here. Cody is going to be 16 next month.

I'm sending out a request for prayers and/or positive energy ... wherever you find your hope, dig in and send some their way, please.


My own update? Wolf's on a drug which has kept him either sleeping or wanting to be, since Wednesday. His next appt with Doc God is Tuesday and I'm hoping there will be honest account made of the side effects. True, Wolf hasn't passed out since he began this med, but it hasn't been a week yet, and that was his usual time between episodes. If he goes this week without falling down, then maybe they want to reduce the dosage? I don't know.

I'm tired. My brain is off in a million directions and I can't seem to keep a though long enough to get it typed out to completion.

*Names changed, of course, to protect the family's privacy.

My mother gave me some stuff to think about. I'm thinking about it.


My place of employment has a no-cell-phone policy. Not only do I blatantly disregard this policy, I told my team-lead, floor manager and store manager that the policy didn't apply to me. With Wolf's health the way it is and he being a house-husband and home-schooler to our kidlet, I want Kitten to have a easy way to reach me in case of emergency. I didn't want her to have to call work and have me paged to 'line 101,' so to speak. That's too much work for a panicked almost-eleven-year-old. Generally, the only incoming calls I get are from home so my phone has become 'for emergencies only!'

I didn't realize that my phone was off until almost half way through my shift today. When I saw the blank screen, I started to shake. I turned it on, all the while wondering if there was going to be a voice-mail waiting. I envisioned all the possibilities through the eyes of terror. Being the good employee that I am, I couldn't call home until my lunch break. And everything was fine.

Wolf's doctor said he's 'almost positive' it isn't Wolf's brain that's the issue. Almost positive. I told Wolf I wanted that in writing so I could sue his ass back to the stone age in the event that his confidence is once again misplaced.

And now I'm going to get to the business at hand. I'm home for the weekend and I've a family that I've missed terribly this week.

Today, I learn all about sleep deprivation: the effects, the tests and the recovery.

This is one of those things that requires back-story. I really don't want to be sitting here, typing, for the next half hour so I'll give you the abridged version.

Wolf left work one day last March, feeling a little under the weather. He was tired and had had some dizziness but his drive home was uneventful. When he arrived, he found he couldn't quite get out of the truck. He made a few calls - one to his roommate and apprentice, a couple to me and one to 911. By the time the ambulance got there his heart rate had dropped to 34 beats per minute.

This event led to a week's stay in the cardiac ward (with heart rate dropping as low as 24 b/m), a transfer to the major cardiac unit on the island for surgery (which never happened) and, finally, release. He's been home on Medical Leave since and has gone through a battery of tests. All of them have been relatively easy, requiring little more than wearing monitors and whatnot.

The big issue with this whole situation, next to not knowing what the hell is wrong, is that Wolf's doctor is an ass. The man didn't set Wolf up with a specialist until last month. After more than a half-year and no answers, the good doctor finally said, "I'm just a GP. How am I supposed to know?" And thus rings in a new era. A week later, Wolf was in to see an Internist who ran one 24 hour test and said, "It isn't your heart. Your heart is doing exactly what it is supposed to do. I'm recommending that you be set up with a neurologist and I won't be seeing you again." And that brings us to today.

Last night I went to bed in the spare room just after eleven o'clock. When I woke at 6:30 this morning, I immediately returned to our room to see how he was doing. It took a few tries to wake him, at which point he looked pained and said, "Oh no, I slept half an hour." Not to worry, he'd been instructed to sleep no more than five hours to qualify for the test. When he told me about that I asked him if they knew that he generally slept less than that every night.

So, now we watch the election aftermath and logo wars on the news. We'll leave here at 9:30 am to arrive the hospital by 10:40. That's all I know. From that point on, I don't know what to expect. This whole experience is new to me. Wolf has been through it all, many times - that's more back-story which I will get to at some point.

Seeing God.

(Cross posted to LJ)
I told him that I wasn't interested in watching his slow (or not so) decline and that I was struggling to be supportive in this, his time of illness. If he wasn't going to go see his doctor, so be it. He said he was just fine, that he'd been sick like this before and all has turned out just fine in the past. Then he excused himself to cough until he was sick. "Okay," Wolf said, "if I'm not feeling better by Tuesday I'll make a doctor's appointment." That was on Sunday.

Monday was a replay of Sunday but at a distance (he's back to living-out during the week).

Yesterday morning he called me sounding chipper, if somewhat raspy.

Wolf: Hey babe, (chokecoughsputterwheeze) -(strangled) hang-on (coughhackcoughchoke.......)
Me: Oh good! You're feeling better.
W: Hey, that's only my second today. Really, I'm waaaaay better.

The conversation concluded after whatever pertinent information had been gathered and given.

The morning carried on in the usual home-schooling manner, with sneaking and attempted subterfuge, and at about 12:30, Wolf called again. It was the usual lunch time call. He sounded more raspy, like he had the day(s) before. I asked him how he was doing. He said it was all good. 'Have a good afternoon; talk to you later; love you and all that'...

Less than five minutes pass when the phone rings, again.

Wolf: I'm gonna call the doctor and find out if I can get a walk in appointment. (click)

Five more minutes brings with it the announcement that the office is closed for lunch and no one will be answering until 1 o'clock. Shortly before 1:00 he calls to ask me if I can please set things up with Doc God as he's already on the road.

Reception says, "Doc God's not on walk in today and he's booked solid except for an appointment at 1:40." There was no way Wolf could get home (one hour trip) and we could get to Vic (another hour trip). We decide that we don't care. We're heading in to the city, appointment or not. Not a really eventful trip. Nice scenery, smooth highway, tearing cough. Just loverly.

Into Vic and down the Highway, left on Cloverdale and straight on 'til morning... Yup, booked solid. We had to wait a whole 8 minutes before Doc God himself calls Wolf back (you're the next contestant...). Even down the hall, through the closed exam room door I can hear the wracking coughs. Yum! Ten minutes pass and he's heading back down the hall, the grim expression of a man who has to spend a small fortune to regain some semblance of health. Not too bad, really. Turns out the good doctor was only willing to give him 2 days worth. Why? I'll explain that one with the following exchange:

Doc God: Why didn't you come in sooner?
Wolf: (grinning and coughing)....
Doc God: (scratching on his prescription pad with a vengeance)...

And if you didn't understand that then you either are or have That Guy.

that guy
n.

One who takes care of ones needs, usually medical.

personal idiom:

(I'm/you're/he's) not that guy

• masculine judgment: Only pussies go to the doctor if they aren't bleeding from an artery and I'm not that guy.
• sarcasm: Some people go see someone about coughing up blood but Wolf is not that guy.
  

The fricken guy has a bronchial asthmatic infection "that some might call pneumonia." Doc God gave only 2 days of meds so that, if it wasn't getting better, he could escort Wolf to the hospital on Thursday. If Wolf says it's getting better and goes in for more antibiotics etc, Doc God gets to call any possible bluff. See, there's a reason we call him Doc God. He is all seeing and all knowing, but I can't confirm possible claims of omnipotence.