"Do you think you'll be able to start the floor today?", I asked the young subcontractor. "Not today" , he said ,
Maybe we'll go to Cleveland Clinic soon. Maybe. As of this morning Michael's chart has been on some doctor's desk for the past two weeks. Maybe it's the Director of the Unit. Maybe not. Someone's on vacation. The Director? Maybe.
Last night Michael had twenty plus seizures between 8 and 10 o'clock. The Ativan I reluctantly gave him at least kept us out of the emergency room. Maybe today will be a better day. Maybe.
I'm still sitting in my bed. I've made my fruitless calls to Cleveland and the contractor. I've written to a dear friend who sent me an email to let me know she was thinking about us. I've written extensively in Michael's electronic medical record to alert his medical team about last evening and get some bit of advice they might have.
I've cried and cried and cried. Mostly silently. Tears unleashed after weeks and months of frustration and fear and helplessness. A mini pity-party. It'll be over soon. A few moments to let it out and regroup. A few more moments in The Comfort Sheets. Then things will be better. Maybe.