When my folks were raising us six kids, there was a day when Mom hauled my brother to the emergency room–Washington, DC is not a small town–and the receptionist looked up and smiled, “Oh hello, Mrs. Jeppson. What is it this time?”
I heard that story from Mom when I called her 26 years ago wailing, “Do kids survive childhood!” after my baby, my first, 13 months old and a determined climber, had ended up in the ER two Fridays in a row.
Mom laughed and reminded me of all the things I’d done that had helped lead up to that receptionist’s question.
But I dunno. When you call the hospital (this was today) and the person who answers recognizes your voice…
Two and a half months ago, after my surgery, they told me that some ileostomy patients eventually become allergic to the standard skin protectant they were using. Hopefully I wouldn’t be one of them.
And I thought, my stars, have you ever met my feral immune system? It is NOT housebroken!
Two and a half months. The fungal and yeast tests came back negative, the allergy patch flaming. That stoma paste is SO busted. There’s an expensive alternative, and my insurance is just going to have to take it. (I know, I know, given January, we’ll all weep for them.)
You guys out there in the industry, creating Eakins and the like, you’d better keep researching and inventing fast, because at this rate I’m just plain hosed.
I think I’ll go wrap me up in a blanket for which I am exceedingly grateful to my friends and knit. Something complicated that will require a lot of focus.