All aboard the disaster train

Jessica and I have spent a good portion of the evening – now, the morning – on the phone. It seems that our understanding that Namine’s last dose of vancomycin was this evening at 8:00 is incorrect. But even that is not for sure.

Communication issues

Sometimes when Namine scoots around a lot, she scoots her pants down, and they need to be pulled up. “Daddy, my bitches fell down!” “You mean your britches?” “Yes, my bitches. Can you pull my bitches back up?”

Cardiology and the PICC line

On Friday we went to see Namine’s cardiologist. On the agenda was the checkup and possible removal of the sutures in her chest incision, about which Namine was none too thrilled. Namine is often afraid of doctors and nurses on principle. But she’s often shown that when it gets down to the moment, she sheds the fear and lets the doctor (or physician’s assistant, in this case) do what he needs to do.

Cutting it close

We’re only provided a short supply of vancoballs and saline. We rely on the VNA to deliver more on time, as Namine’s medication must be given to her every six hours, without fail. It’s scary when we get down to the wire.

Mummy dogs

Tonight was supposed to be leftover night, but Namine had a different idea. She saw on Jessica’s phone a picture of mummy dogs – hot dogs wrapped up in crescent rolls like mummies. “We should have that!” she said.