I can't. (I have this thing? About public toilets? And even though we have a bathroom in our room? Yeah. Can't do it.)
We have heard from various people that surgery will be postponed 2, 4 and 6 weeks. Not quite sure yet which is true. I have calls in to our cardiologist and our surgeon. One of them is bound to call back soon.
Georgia is down to .25 liters of oxygen. I am told that it can take several days to get off that amount. Crazy considering she was at 4 and 6 liters at various times.
I feel absolutely insane trying to manage when and how we're going to manage our move and getting back and forth to doctor appointments and picking up extra cars and not making Georgia do the drive too many times. And getting our pharmceuticals once we're in VT. And and and...
I guess I am over the spring thing. I have to be.
Can't really even make plans when we don't know when she is going to get out of the hospital though can we?
I am complaining. How annoying.
The pants I am wearing? The zipper is broken. Our house is almost an hour away, my sewing supplies are all packed up and if I am not careful my barn door will be open for all the world to see.
Poems and stories in the making even while my daughter lies in her crib, connected. Even in the thick of it I think about how it can be translated to the page. Awakened by doctors' voices and beeping monitors and lights flashing. Those thoughts slip away. And become just worry. Just insomnia. Just the metal bars of the fold our chair slatting my back. "Is she ok?" I ask. They tell me something about low output. She's fine. She will be fine. Once they give her her Lasix. I can't sleep. I can't not sleep.
The bags under my eyes are as big as the bags we are living out of.