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I have been back in Boston for a week.
My father must have been kicking some bacterial ass, because after twelve days of IV antibiotics, tests showed conclusively that he was winning. The home care nurse came stopped by that evening and took out his PICC line, which is like a long-term IV. The living room was cleaned of its medical workstation and returned to its rightful status. Dad started braving the basement stairs to do laundry (of course I would have; he didn't tell me) and found my missing sock. And I started thinking it was time to go home.
I kept feeling that way. My parents were doing fine. Something in me was out of gas. I took a shuttle home last Saturday and was sick and coughing twelve hours later.
It's just a cold, but I'm grateful that I didn't get either of my parents sick. I'm still taking cough medicine.
More recent tests show that my father is continuing to kick the crap out of whatever was trying to kill him. He keeps getting stronger, through probably not fast enough for him. I finally had time for a haircut and am slowly starting to work on the mail piles and paperwork around the apartment. I've gotten on the stationary bike a few times, gently, and my hip seems to be tolerant, if not enthusiastic.
Being in DC was like boot camp for my hip. I hadn't walked so much since before surgery. I certainly hadn't climbed stairs every day. By the time I left, I could climb them one after the other instead of right leg, stop, right leg, stop.
It's a huge mental boost to be so much stronger. I can't imagine my surgeon won't clear me for physical therapy now. I still have to get the screws taken out (outpatient procedure, several weeks of mild soreness in the hip bone) and the psoas tendon issue will probably limit me in little ways for another couple of months, but I feel like I can see the road stretching ahead of me for the first time since I decided I had to see a doctor four years ago.
What a long, strange trip it's been.
My father must have been kicking some bacterial ass, because after twelve days of IV antibiotics, tests showed conclusively that he was winning. The home care nurse came stopped by that evening and took out his PICC line, which is like a long-term IV. The living room was cleaned of its medical workstation and returned to its rightful status. Dad started braving the basement stairs to do laundry (of course I would have; he didn't tell me) and found my missing sock. And I started thinking it was time to go home.
I kept feeling that way. My parents were doing fine. Something in me was out of gas. I took a shuttle home last Saturday and was sick and coughing twelve hours later.
It's just a cold, but I'm grateful that I didn't get either of my parents sick. I'm still taking cough medicine.
More recent tests show that my father is continuing to kick the crap out of whatever was trying to kill him. He keeps getting stronger, through probably not fast enough for him. I finally had time for a haircut and am slowly starting to work on the mail piles and paperwork around the apartment. I've gotten on the stationary bike a few times, gently, and my hip seems to be tolerant, if not enthusiastic.
Being in DC was like boot camp for my hip. I hadn't walked so much since before surgery. I certainly hadn't climbed stairs every day. By the time I left, I could climb them one after the other instead of right leg, stop, right leg, stop.
It's a huge mental boost to be so much stronger. I can't imagine my surgeon won't clear me for physical therapy now. I still have to get the screws taken out (outpatient procedure, several weeks of mild soreness in the hip bone) and the psoas tendon issue will probably limit me in little ways for another couple of months, but I feel like I can see the road stretching ahead of me for the first time since I decided I had to see a doctor four years ago.
What a long, strange trip it's been.