Word was that my mother was leaving the hospital today. (And oh, I may post very bad poetry later. It's probably going to be some cringe-worthy shit, but it's how this boy shakes his tail feathers when subconscious angst needs to bubble through.) The doctors have felt that mom may fare better tasting some home cooking rather than trying to swallow the scum that's scraped upon the plates and trays that rolls through. I mean seriously. There's a money-making opportunity for anyone who would like to provide an alternative to eating shit in the hospital. I'm not kidding. Shit. On a plate. To eat. When you're sick. Not good.
So, the doctors, in their infinite wisdom, think it better to have mom go home. I agree, she agrees. Yay.
We were sent home with some medication and received some IV nutrition, antibiotics, and other item related to her home health. First the delivery from the pharmacy came in two large boxes, which revealed a daunting array of syringes, tubes, medications, and opportunities for error. Next, a nurse arrived to show us how completely over our heads we were in attempting to compete with the regimen of nurses and schedules that we had left behind in the hospital.
Yay.
