There's no place like home. Maybe not ours, but someone's.

I have mentioned my superstitiousness in the past, and I try not to fall back on it when times get a little tough but when it came to something like this I felt the need to hold back my big announcement that WE ARE OUT OF THE HOSPITAL.




I feel enough time has passed now to mention it. Obviously.

We were discharged in the evening, a few minutes before six. I always thought they would want you out first thing in the morning; sort of like turnover in a restaurant. They can make more money the more people they have moving in and out of the rooms. The nearly well person only needs their stats checked while a whole new person will need tests and bloods and x-rays and CHACHING!

So, the echocardiogram tech comes around --

Yes, echo. For the heart. He had pneumonia. Of the lungs. This is the second time the cardiology department had come around to do an echo. I think after I told the doctors they had $7,000,000 to play with they went a little wild. Should I have argued when they gave him the buttock augmentation?

She does the echo and it takes around 45 minutes and she's done by 10.30am. And Mister Man hated it. A lot. He kept trying to touch the wand and when she would give him a dummy wand he would reject it and go for the real one again. And then she would stick the cold goo on him and I swear to god every time she did it I wanted to scream at her CAN'T YOU SEE WE ARE WRESTLING A MONKEY HERE? A VERY STRONG 12 MONTH OLD MONKEY?? but instead I decided to remember my manners and that she couldn't give a flying fudge about how he is reacting, her job is to get the echo and get the hell out of dodge.

She finishes. By the good grace of god she finally finishes! And she leaves and we wait. And wait and wait and wait. And wait. And I complain and they call and we wait. Did I mention the waiting? And the whining and complaining? All done by me? Someone mentions that the cardiologist himself is going to come and talk to us and I look at them dubiously because doctors themselves never come talk to you; not the important ones. They send nervous, pleb doctors and if that is what I'm waiting for, I can live without his diagnosis. Someone get this shiz over the phone.

SEVEN HOURS LATER after the third "where the flip is this doctor" conversation I had with our nurse, the head (nervous, bumbling, sweating) resident comes and talks to us after he has a two second conversation with the cardiologist. All is fine. We can go. This resident tries to answer a few of our questions -- daycare, medicines, etc.-- and instead we just turn to the nurse with the discharge papers who gives me a look, like, really? You brought this awkwardness on yourself. Then she answers our questions and we are dismissed.

Now, we are in the US until March. We can't fly because of the pneumothorax so we are at my parent's house waiting to go back to Ireland -- our home, our jobs, our friends, our life -- but until then we are eating at Chilis, seeing IMAX movies, watching Amazing Wedding Cakes, and not showering daily and taking complete advantage of being homebound.

Mister Man is doing great so far. We have a follow up tomorrow to make sure everything is still where it's supposed to be, doing what it's supposed to do. And after that if I ever see that hospital again it will be too soon. We are done with orange PICU walls and funny scrubs. We are done with O2 saturation stats and doctors who have the word "infectious" in their title. You know why?


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Liz in Dublin