Hotter prodded me recently to update the blog; he said it'd been a while, and I looked and he was right.
Not a lot has been going on. Hotter is seeing lots of new doctors lately, not so much as a result of Pneumoniagate, but because of his hallucinations in the ER. Apparently it's one thing for the wife to tell the neurologist that the patient is having episodes of weirdness that appear to be neurologically-driven, and another thing for medical professionals to see it in action. I'm not mad about it. Hell, I'm mostly relieved, because before it was like, he'd have a spell and do something kind of scary*, I'd talk to him afterward and lay down ultimatums, we'd talk to his neurologist, and not a lot would get DONE. Now? Shit is getting DONE. It's inconvenient, in that I hate constantly asking off from work for appointments, but it's necessary. He's got a sleep study coming up, at which point I am 100% confident he'll be diagnosed with apnea, and I'm excited to see what kind of progress he'll make when that's treated (not to mention stoked about not being on "resuscitation-watch," since it's not unusual for me to bolt awake in eerie silence, find that he's not breathing, and have to administer a sternal rub** to get him started again). Meanwhile, the probiotics seem to have worked a miracle in that Hotter's GI issues have all but disappeared, he's got the appetite(s) of a teenage boy, he's continued to put on much-needed weight, and he hasn't had a single neurological event in WEEKS. I think malnutrition was lowering the threshold for whatever-the-fuck those neurological events are/were, and am enjoying Hotter being in better health and spirits.
Meanwhile I on the other hand have been feeling like absolute shit. At first I blamed the pneumonia, then the stress of Hotter's illness, then the steroid taper, and finally I'm just admitting that the rashes, GI issues, joint pain, headaches, exhaustion, and general misery are probably my autoimmune bullshit doing what it likes to do in the wake of any major infection. I could see a bunch of doctors and undergo a bunch of tests and have them all find nothing conclusive but agree that I probably have "unspecified autoimmune issues," and go on and off steroids and narcotics, or I can lie around doing a lot of nothing and taking lots of naps when I'm not at work until the water finds its mark again, so to speak. Since Option Two is cheaper, requires less effort, and is less emotionally draining, I'm going with that. I've always bounced back in the past, and therefore I probably will this time, too.
I was on the Facespace today and saw one of those dumb clickbait quizzes, in which you could determine what kind of witch you are (options being characters from TV, movies, fairy tales, etc.). I answered honestly and got Glinda The Good Witch. Christ. I feel like I should go kick some canes on the next Seniors Day at Kroger to re-up my street cred or something! I don't know why people and, evidently, the Facespace, persist in seeing me as this sweet, upright, sheltered creature. FFS, when he was lecturing me about the purple hair my boss busted out with "I guess I'm just disappointed; you don't seem like the purple-haired TYPE!" I asked him if it would blow his mind entirely to learn that most of the skin my work uniform covers is tattooed, and apparently it did.
I AM A BADASS, DAMMIT! ROAR!
I need to work on being scarier while I'm still bigger than 2/3 of my children (yeah, Big Child has turned into a frigging giant, and is closing in on six feet tall and wearing a size 13 shoe these days--he likes to loom over Hotter's and my heads, chuckling goofily, and hand things to us by first holding them waaaaay up out of reach, the jerk).
No news from the South Pacific, by the way, so I assume Only Living Relative is still alive and doing...whatever it is he does with himself. Sigh.
* Point of clarification: Hotter has never harmed me or any of the children or animals. When I say "scary," I mean yelling and clearly hallucinating, being uncharicteristically belligerent and confrontational, exhibiting signs of being in a postictal state afterward, and one time punching an innocent doorjamb. If he'd harmed any living thing this story would be taking a very different course.
** Yes, that article paints the sternal rub in a rather negative light, and I agree that it's probably overused in the medical field and also Not The Nicest Way to rouse someone, however 1) it's effective, 2) I am not interested in being nice so much as in immediate results when someone with pre-existing brain damage is not breathing, 3) there is always the possibility, however slim, that Hotter has seized in his sleep, and he stops breathing sometimes after seizures, so I need to know whether to give him a breath, and 4) I'm not nice when I'm awakened from a sound sleep, period.