It might surprise you that, as I’ve reflected on the news over the last few hours, I’ve decided that I’m moving to America. My reason is a selfish one: Trump has promised to banish all illegal immigrants so the Squatter should be afraid. Simples.
Too soon for Trump-related tumour humour? It’s all I’ve got to lift me from the pit of despair about humanity.
Back to the Future of the world another time no doubt but, for now, I have so many thoughts and yet so little to say. And not just because of my mild speech problem.
(If) The Drugs Don’t Work
My phenytoin trough test yesterday showed the levels are up to a seven following a booster dose on Monday (to recap, they aim for 10, I had been a three, although seven is acceptable). They are going to test my blood levels again tomorrow and, if it’s down, they are going to consider dropping my phenytoin and introducing a new anti-seizure drug.
I’m still having one or two seizures a day and I’ll be in hospital until the seizures are under control. Despite the seizures continuing, I’m getting stronger and more mobile by the day (with the usual caveat that it’s all relative) except for the one or two hours in the immediate aftermath of a seizure.
I am pleased to report on the vanity front, however, that the swelling and black eyes have gone. The staples are coming out tomorrow. For those who haven’t had the pleasure of seeing my war wound, I can send a photo if you like. Don’t be shy about asking!
Perhaps as a precursor to the demagogue’s election, Mr C had a rubbish birthday! He is on another course of antibiotics for tonsillitis so it’s either not quite left him or immediately returned to his run-down body after a couple of days’ hiatus. I therefore didn’t see him for our birthday date, not only because he didn’t want to pass it on to me but because he felt rotten and was in bed all day, apart from venturing out to the doctors (his Dad kindly drove him as G didn’t trust himself to drive).