Zombie Files, 4
He’s hoooooome.
I rang up at about 11:15 and was told that he was speaking to the consultant, no he wasn’t speaking to the consultant, he had spoken to the consultant, no he hadn’t spoken to the consultant, he was going to speak to the consultant, no, maybe he was going to speak to the consultant, the consultant does not exist, and the Vogons are about to destroy us to make a galactic bypass anyway.
Also there were eighty-six tests they still needed to take on his way out the door, fourteen blood, forty-six pee, three skin, fourteen hair (this includes six eyelash), two elbow, three right ear and four classified, as well as the farewell party, for which they were going to wake up the man who had been hallucinating (loudly) at 3 a.m. and give him a party hat and some confetti.
HE’S HOOOOOOOOME.
And I’m a wreck, of course. I knew this sleep thing was too good to last. Last night was . . . well. Superba is here again tonight, we’ve got other cruising family coming through tomorrow, and Alastair shows up for tomorrow night . . . and then it’s Peter and I on our own again. Eeep. One of the bottom lines here is that I am essentially unreliable, because of the ME. All the running around and overdoing I do is all, all based on the fact that I can crash suddenly if I have to—that if I crash suddenly, nobody dies. So whatever back up we Lego together has to include a second tier that backs up me. I have some phone numbers, the hospital sent a flyer home about a panic button system that I’ll ring up about first thing Monday morning* and we have an appointment with Peter’s GP on Friday**, who should have all the notes and test results*** from the hospital by then.
But at least he’s home. And I can start feeding him real food again. We began, as so much in this household begins, with roast chicken.† And tomorrow I am (somewhat giddily††) making fish salad††† for the multitudes. But right at the moment I think I might try the old bodily application to horizontal bed surface early enough to have some hope of getting out of bed again to have the fish salad composed before lunchtime tomorrow.‡ The Dickinsons are all disgustingly prompt about mealtimes.
* * *
* First thing as my mornings go
** Friday morning. Way too early. Ugggh. The things one does for love.
*** Which so far say mostly ‘unnh?’
† Chicken? say the hellhounds alertly. Fresh roast chicken? We’ve been very good you know, this week, we’ve eaten!!! and slept and defecated and have hardly made you feel guilty at all for all those hours in a dog free zone—you know they’ve done studies that pets make sick people get better faster—and besides we’re cute.
†† Before I married a Kitchen Control Freak I frequently did things like roast chickens and make fish salad.
††† Fish, rice, fennel, onion, dill, avocado—because we’re crawling with avocados, I forgot about the infestation ripening under the stairs—probably some olives. The other reason I forget about posting recipes is because I so rarely cook by recipe. Tomorrow the multitudes include one vegetarian and two seriously hearty eaters, and we’re crawling with avocados. Ergo.
‡ It’s not even midnight. I’m not sure I know how to go to bed this early.
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