drip, drip

One of Rich's stitches is leaking.  Not all the time; mostly in the morning.  Still, for the neurosurgeon this is a cause of worry about infection and meningitis.  Let me have a look at it, he says.  Maybe we'll need a lumbar drain.

Interpreted:  Does he think we call a taxi and arrive at his door in, oh, about an hour?  Is there no local physician capable of monitoring this?  And a lumbar drain means another stretch of a hospital stay.

Rest, that's all I want.  In my bed, and from hospitals, mysterious drips, collateral damage, radiation, and continued poisoning of Rich's body.

Interpreted:  I don't hear a choice.

Some good news.  Yesterday I found the missing mobile phone antenna.  I had, after all, the awareness to stuff it in Rich's attache, thinking he might know what it is.  Now if was only awake enough to remember that I remembered...

Candace