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Bad is having a tube in your brain.
Very bad is having a tube in your brain that then gets infected.
Worst of all is having a tube in your brain that drains nothing but pus and chunks of brain tissue. Jo went *erp* O_< at that.
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If you haven't already read Mindpop, go do so immediately.
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The drought, while not broken, has been moderated in the worst way over the last few days. A series of thunderstorms/tornadoes/supercells dropping golfball-sized hail has formed right atop us this week. While we've gotten some much-needed rain--maybe all of Littleton won't burn to the ground!--it's been exciting. I tried to lie down for a nap today and was disturbed by the howl of the weather sirens and the BANG BANG BANG of hail on the windows.
Max was unaffected. So were the cats. Little bastards wanted to go outside and play in it.
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The interview with the nice writer for Reader's Digest went swimmingly. Thank you for all your suggestions. I have one to add: "I'd never tell a patient that he's a moron for waiting a week for his stroke symptoms to improve before coming to the hospital." Although, you know, I'd like to. Especially when his wife bitches me out because "we're not doing anything" for the guy. Lady, there's nothing we *can* do. Aspirin, make sure he's not in a-fib, make sure there's no patent foramen ovale, rehab: that's the prescription for moronity right now.
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Nurse Ames and I are making our semi-annual pilgrimage to Dr. Crane's tomorrow. There's one stop we have to make first, at the PET center. My single Valium is safely packed away in my purse. I've gone from unworried to completely freaked out to fatalistic and drinking too much wine. Just as I was reminding myself that nothing was likely to have popped up in six months, the Steel-Toothed Brain Ferrets chimed in with the fact that it was only six months between a clean check-up and the discovery of The Toomah.
Oh, well. If the PET's clean, I'll celebrate for years. If it's not, I'll have more material for the blog.
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Bad is having a tube down your throat.
Worse is having a tube down your throat and an intensivist that doesn't know how to set the ventilator correctly.
Worst of all is sustaining lung damage because your intensivist set the ventilator wrong. Then you end up with us. Whether or not that is an improvement is up for debate.
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And finally: A group of us (including the Cute Neurosurgeon and That Other Really Cute Guy and The Third Really Cute Guy, The One With The Crazy-Eyes) from work have started meeting for fun, adult events like going to the kids' exhibits at the science museum in Bigton (with flasks; that's what makes it adult) or going off to the driving range (with flasks). We're all heading out to a burlesque show this weekend; one of the girls from the CCU is making her girdle-and-pasties debut. We plan to dress.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, a colleague who can wear a fascinator without looking ridiculous, is lending me a waist cincher. I am practicing using liquid eyeliner to make those little cat's-eyes lines and have bought a new dress. I am stepping up my game. Der Alter Jo has mentioned that she might join the fawn-walking-on-ice brigade in a new pair of FM pumps, and Stoya is going to wear something red and strapless that will make her look tigerish and exotic.
When I asked La Belle Dame what she planned to wear, she said, "Oh, just this black dress I've got. And five-inch platforms. And a fascinator. And gloves." Hence the stepping-up of the game.
Wish me luck. The evening will be a win if I can escape without a broken ankle. I haven't worn heels since I surprised Mom at her own birthday celebration a few years ago.