Today I found myself thinking about the rehab hospital and the time you spent there. It isn't pleasant to remember, though we did enjoy some times there in spite of everything. But it wasn't good. They are great at vent weans, but you had too much else going on. They weren't up to handling your CHF. Basically, they weren't a critical care unit. You had one at home with me, and together we handled it quite well. But we never did get them to listen to us, even on basic things like giving you Lasix before transfusing you. In spite of all that, you were getting better and the vent wean was progressing until you got MRSA. I fought for you there, too, even visiting the administrator's office. The only people that seemed to listen to me were the doctors, and I was thankful for that.
Being somewhere else wouldn't have changed the course of events; I know that. Nobody could reverse the radiation damage. I was so frustrated, fought so hard. And I know you didn't feel safe there. I felt terrible about that and would have been there night and day if I hadn't had to work and let the dog out. It was hard. Maybe we should just leave it at that.
I drove by there on the way to see Barb last month, for only the second time since you were there. The compulsion to turn was so strong that I drove by saying out loud, "Don't turn in. Don't turn in. Don't turn in." I'm not sure if I need to keep driving by it to desensitize myself, or if I should never go that way again. Probably the former, but it will take some time.
All of this is one reason I remember Methodist so fondly. The memories after that are painful. Methodist was our last good time together. Tonight I'll go to sleep remembering those days - the last times you were able to talk to me, the last time you walked, the last time you could stand up and put your arms around me. Hurry the next time!
Still hurting for you,