Home with love

Joan is home again. The ambos delivered her and helped her into bed. After about two hours sleep she attempted to reach out to the side table for a bell to call me and fell out of bed doing some more damage to herself by hitting the side table. Fortunately Helen and James were closeby looking at a house and they came immediately to assist me getting her up and onto a chair for some repairs to bleeding and bruising. After a couple of glasses of coffee flavoured milk she went back to bed. Hope she is able to sleep through the night, but I doubt she will be able to.

The Silver Chain nurse is due at 9.30am tomorrow and a hospital bed with an air mattress and side bars should be here over the weekend.

Yesterday the Oncologist virtually signed off on us by acquiesing to releasing her from hospital to come home.
As a final farewell he shook both our hands.

This from the author Siri Hustvedt...

"Every sickness has an alien quality, a feeling of invasion and loss of control that is evident in the language we use about it. No one says, 'I am cancer' or even 'I am cancerous,' despite the fact that there is no intruding virus or bacteria; it's the body's own cells that have run amok. One has cancer. Neurological and psychiatric illnesses are different, however, because they often attack the very source of what one imagines is one's self. 'He's an epileptic' doesn't sound strange to us. In the psychiatric clinic, the patients often say, 'Well, you see, I'm bipolar' or 'I'm schizophrenic.' The illness and the self are fully identified in these sentences.

The Locks sometime in the the 1990s