I'm hoping (and praying) that I'm finished with a very tough job. No, it's not setting up a Google Campaign, or brainstorming a logo design with a new client. What's the job, you ask? It's not what you'd expect. It's the full-time job of advocating for my husband, who was hospitalized twice in six weeks. After not feeling well on and off for about a month, I came home to find Jeff writhing with stomach pain, a pain that would take days of morphine drips to get under control. It's taken me a few weeks to sit down and write this; admittedly, I took better care of my family than I did myself during the ordeal. But it's important that I share this with you, in the hopes of preventing future frustrations for my friends, family and clients.
Our first visit to Westerly Hospital was in the early evening hours, and getting information from the staff was like pulling teeth. I found myself asking over and over "Where are you taking him?", "What's next?" and "Any results yet?". Not a single bit of information came freely, and answers would come in days, not hours. The doctors seemed like ghosts to me; my visits in the ensuing days came too early or, more often then not, I had "just missed" them. I made some critical errors though: I was trying to take care of Maia as much as I could, trying to keep things normal for her. But there was nothing normal about this situation; I should have relied a lot more on my family.
To be continued...
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