The rather unimaginatively titled: Update III

I’ve decided that I am going to stop making predictions about when Evan will be able to come home. Nearly every post I’ve made about his hospital admission I’ve written something like “he might be home tomorrow” and each time it’s been proved wrong. That’s not to say he’s not continuing to get better however, because he is. He doesn’t need the oxygen at all now when he’s awake; but he still struggles to keep his saturation levels up while he’s asleep so technically he’s still on it. He has to be breathing completely independently for 24 hours before he can leave.

So I think he’ll be home on Friday.

Everyone is coping with the situation very well. Amy seems to accept visiting her mum and brother in hospital every day, although she is tending to get a little upset at bedtime and through the night. She’s sleeping in our bed at the moment and I predict we are going to have some fun and games reinstalling her bedtime routine; but to be honest I don’t really care. As long as she’s getting some reassurance and security from it right now that’s what matters. And anyway, her being there gives me some comfort too.

The hospital shop is currently absorbing more of my income than my mortgage and council tax combined, especially if I have Amy with me. She is fully exploiting our current vulnerable state and need to express our love for our children. I’m obviously the softest touch, but Kerry and my mother can share some of the guilt too. From one or another of us today she has extracted: an ice cream, carton of juice, chocolate buttons, two lollipops, a Dora magazine, and a marshmallow stick . What’s more she also somehow persuaded her Granny to buy me a pineapple yogurt for a present. I don’t even like pineapple yogurt.

Recently Paul accused me of indulging in a bit of a rant on my last post. Just ask me about hospital car parking facilities or the horrendous imposition of capitalism over patient wellbeing that is Patientline (where people trying to phone sick relatives are charged up to 49p a minute) and you will learn the true meaning of the word rant. Or better yet, don’t. My blood pressure is probably too high already.