Yeah, that's me. While we're definitely on the right side of things with Pete's recovery, I'm so freakin' fried that I am only semi-functioning. My sister and her husband have stepped up the plate in a big way, dropping everything to come help. They're making the meals. They're walking in front of Pete when he walks down the stairs and behind him when he walks up the stairs. [Hey, someone has to break his fall, right?] They're taking the kids to the mall. They're taking the kids to the movies. They're cleaning up. They're sitting with the patient.
But it's still too much. I am on the edge, pouncing on the kids whenever they misbehave. Bickering brats that they are -- who is raising these wild children? -- I'm getting a lot of practice pouncing. Okay, that's not entirely true. They're doing well. They're good kids. They're just...kids, with that limited amount of empathy filling their bones. Wish it was as easy as giving them a gummy vitamin to boost their empathy level.
[All you perfect parents out there whose children always behave and would rise to the occasion with dignity and aplomb -- bite me. Better yet, bite your sugary-sweet children for me.]
Pete's not sleeping well at all. We've got him set up in the living room in his "bachelor" recliner from the old days. I had a friend help me carry it up last weekend, before the surgery, as Pete had been told by a couple of former bypass patients that sleeping sitting up was about the only way they managed to sleep. But even that's not much of a help. He can catch an odd hour or two here and there, but that's the extent of it.
Not one to sit on my ass and wallow in self-pity, I called the cardiac nurse handling our case, and I've scored some sleeping pills for him. [Don't tell on me if I nip one for myself, 'k?] I also said I wasn't sticking with the pain medication dosing schedule. It says every four hours, and we're lucky if we can make 3 hours and 15 minutes. We've "agreed" to a 3.5 hour schedule for the next couple of days. If the pain isn't manageable by then, they'll likely switch him to another pain killer.
I am so boring myself with this post. But it's the best I have to offer. One last note, which might bring a smile to your face. We all know how OCD I am, yes? I've created a spreadsheet to keep track of his temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, weight and intake of 10 different medications. A spreadsheet? That is so me.
[For the record, the chair he has is about 15 years old and is made of fabric. Plaid-like fabric, to be perfectly honest. Is it any wonder it typically lives in the basement play room?]