I got a card in the mail from my dear friend who sat with me in the recovery room last week, and reminded me to keep breathing on the way home when I'd talk too much and run out of air. It was a sweet card, and on the outside it just said, "Breathe." Yes, ma'am. I'm trying.
Talked to the rheumatologist today about my ongoing struggle to keep my oxygen saturation up, and she gave me figures and said if it gets (this bad), please consider the ER or urgent care. Apparently the fear is for blood clots. She felt me up pretty thoroughly and said she saw no obvious signs of one, but don't fool around if it doesn't improve. I have been sucking in air as deeply as I am able, and monitoring my numbers. They have been looking much better.
The surgeon didn't originally prescribe antibiotics, but after my stitches came out and they saw how much the velcro and elastic had abraded my skin, they called in some, "just in case." I'm a bit challenging on that score, what with my bazillion allergies, so the nurse picked one that seemed safe. Unfortunately, in the day and a half since I've been using it, the heartburn it causes has gone from irritating to unbearable. I think I need to call them tomorrow and say I'm not interested in pouring battery acid into the center of my chest anymore, and ask for options. I'm not taking this one again.
I stayed up for a while last night, watching the latest livestream births on Tiny Kittens, my favorite cat rescue organization in British Columbia. I checked in this evening, just to see how they were faring (they being 5 newborns-- 2 calicos, 1 torbie, 1 tuxie, and 1 panther). The sound of kitten squeaks got me in trouble quickly. I guess I'll have to find headphones so I don't offend Alfred with the sound of baby kittens who will never invade his space, but who should not disturb his peace of mind in any case.
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