Sunday afternoon I ventured over to see Daughter. She greeted me with a smile and a very long hug—more of a cling, actually. She wanted me to stay for a long time. As we played cards, I could see her fading. I began to suspect she was constipated. I don’t know what the clue was, but something set me to wondering. When Daughter is stressed, she seeks things to control. Her bowel habits are something she can control. When she finally stops controlling, the results clog the toilet. I’ve become an expert plunger. For years she took Miralax daily, but the last few years she’s been better, so now she only takes it after a toilet clog.
When she was admitted, I warned them they would need to ask her daily about bowel movements, because she would probably become constipated. When I questioned her Sunday afternoon, it became obvious they haven’t been asking. She hasn’t had a movement since she was admitted on Wednesday. That’s 4 days. She insisted she could wait until she got home. I told the nurse she needed something that evening. The nurse mentioned the possibility of milk of magnesia. I’m considering telling them she can’t come home until they get her cleaned out, but I don’t think the insurance company would go for it. She did say her stomach had been bothering her at some point. I’m amazed it’s not bothering her all the time.
On a cheerier note, the artwork she gave me Sunday was definitely cheerier than her last offering. I do think she’s feeling better. Is she ready to come home? I don’t know. I told her to call me after the Psychiatrist came in and let me know when and if I needed to come get her. I don’t know if she’s ready to home, but I’m ready to stop the daily pilgrimage to the Big City.
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