Just Breathe

The Daddler fell yesterday.  He was making coffee.  Said he got light-headed and his knee went out.  It's a regular thing for him to feel weak when he first gets up in the morning.  It's called orthostatic hypotension.  This is the first time he's fallen, though.

I took him to the doctor this morning.  He had the usual stuff done, plus an X-ray of his knee (it was a little swollen), an ECG, and extensive bloodwork.  Everything looked fine.  We'll get the lab results Monday.  He's still walking the dog and keeping his usual routine.

I worry, though.  This morning, I was upstairs making my morning ablutions, when I heard an ambulance siren.  I wasn't sure he'd gotten back from his walk.  I hurried down the stairs to see if he was home.  I was relieved to see him parked in his recliner, with Lucy in her chair.  Which reminds me.  She has chewed half the arms off the chair.  I keep meaning to put Tabasco on them.  By now it's too late.  It's ruined.  I wonder if she's part beaver.  I've lost at least five pairs of shoes and assorted other things.  Her chewing includes, but is not limited to, a bottle of nail polish, a string of rusty nails, a dried up squirrel carcas, a kite, and the hose to the shop-vac.  This, in spite of $40 worth of chew toys.  Oh, well.

Back to The D's doctor's visit.  From the time we walked out the door until the time we got back home, he instructed me on every single turn, parking space, elevator location, exit from the professional building and the parking garage, entrance to and exit from Wendy's drive-through, stop-lights, etc.  Keep in mind that each command was issued a minimum of two times in a harsh tone.  We used to call him Sarge.  As in drill sergeant.  When he does this, I get flustered, and turn the wrong way (I went to the second floor of the parking garage instead of toward the exit), which reinforces his behavior.

Usually, I can let it roll off my back.  This time, though, I was in tears by the time I signed him in at the doc's.  The sweet receptionist gave me a hug.  This isn't the first time she's seen me cry.  The first few times I went after Mother died, I got very emotional.  I guess this goes with the territory.

While we were on our way to Wendy's (his Shangri-la), the song, Breathe: 2 AM, by Anna Nalick, came on the radio.  It made me cry more, but it consoled me, too.  I don't let him see me cry.  Not that he would notice.

Even though I've failed him many times, (his pill boxes run out for a day or two before he tells me so I can refill them, I forget about his lunch or dinner), when it comes to his health, I've vigilant.  I've been to countless doctors' visits.  And trips for lab work, and diagnostic and outpatient procedures.  I've spent so many hours on his medicine, including a multude of phone calls and trips to the pharmacy.  The doctors love my elaborate spreadsheet of his meds, including whether he takes them in the AM or PM, a list of his specialists (complete with phone numbers and which prescriptions each one writes), and all his contact information.  I love the spreadsheet more, because all I have to do is print the updated one before each appointment and hand it to the nurse.  Only once did I have to fill out the stupid form instead of writing "See attached."

On that note, I need to catch up on laundry, make some muffins (he's out), clean up the kitchen and figure out dinner.  I still need to do his tax return.  Which is very complicated with all the medical expenses.

And remember to just breathe.

Over and out...