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We’re headed home this evening. Killian just finished his third course of radiation and his back should feel somewhat better soon—maybe by next week. We’ll go home to a different set up. He asked for a hospital bed, as it’s almost impossible to get comfortable unless he can change positions easily throughout the night. The delivery guy came this afternoon, and I understand from Cat that the bed's been delivered. Jim and Sharon Sofranko came over to move the TV down to his room so he can get lost in movies, games, whatever. Jim hooked our TV up so we could watch movies, play video games or watch TV with a simple press of the remote. Ingenious. Setting this up has eluded the Mansfields and our relations for three+ years—since we acquired this very TV set. If electronic divertissements were life sustaining, we’d be rooted out by natural selection, while the Sofranko clan thrived.

The other set up is that Killian will have a unit hooked up to his port to deliver a steady stream of intravenous meds. That’s fine, as long as there are no acute incidences of pain (which is like saying we can do without a toilet as long there are no incidences of urination). The medication he prefers for breakthrough pain can’t (by law) be dispensed intravenously by me—a nurse must do it. We don’t get a round-the-clock nurse. Not sure we want one anyway. Apparently, there’s no issue whatsoever (by law) if I accidentally overdose him with an oral opiate solution. They just don’t want me accidentally overdosing him intravenously. I add that to the long list of health care mysteries that elude me. I suppose he'll be fine with the oral solution.

Last night, a lot of anger played in my head. Phil says he gets waves of it about “the healthcare system.” I get waves of it about various subjects: people who have recently hurt me, people who hurt me in the past, raccoons…pretty much in that order last night. Today I did played the angry hospital scene (remember Shirley McLain in Terms of Endearment?) I’d no sooner taken a breath from that nonsense, when I found myself going off on an anger dump about meds (see above). I realize, though, after weeks of predominant sadness—being sad robs you of your response mechanisms. We need adrenaline at the ready. We’re taking our boy home and we’re on our toes.
#@$* raccoons!