Step Seven: Pretend you're normal.

On May 23, 2024, my husband, Jim Gallagher, entered the E.R. he worked in for 15 years, this time as a patient.  Within days he was fighting for his life as an infection that began in his foot raged throughout his body, and on June 4th, his leg was amputated below the knee in order to save his life.  This is an ongoing log of our journey.

Normal?

Touches of “normal” in an extremely abnormal life are both welcome and weird.  Tuesday, July 9th, was one of those weird and wonderful and welcome and wild ones.  Here is a quick “bonus episode” to update you.

For one thing, Tuesday happened to be our 41st wedding anniversary!  For another, we were able to get an appointment with Jim’s retinologist.  I had previously taken this day off of work to address big goblins like Social Security and Medicare.  And beloved buddies from two different states had arrived to stay and lend support and expertise and muscle as we prepare our house for sale. 

Why can’t there be some small goals these days?  Why are they all big ones?

You may recall that over the weekend a new giant emerged: Jim lost his vision.  Don’t picture utter blackness; picture a world of color and vague, moving shapes to go with the sounds you hear around you.  His right eye was already legally blind, but the very good vision in his left eye was now also obliterated.  So seeing Jim’s retinologist was of utmost importance, and after making and losing an appointment on Monday, we were glad to get an early morning appointment on Tuesday. 

But first, in the few minutes before transport, a quick anniversary celebration was in order!  I dug my rumpled and dusty wedding veil out of a bag in the basement, fluffed up the hand-made flowers in the wreath, and walked into the hospital with veil trailing behind me, making sure our anniversary would not go unnoticed!

We then quickly loaded ourselves into our limousine (a medical transport van) and made the trip to Salem, and on the way there Jim described the changing shapes of the mass blocking his vision.  For a while it took the shape of the Space Shuttle, and I laughed watching Jim move his eyes to make it “take off” a few times.  By the time we got to the doctor’s office, it had changed into a bouncing chicken!

It felt blessedly normal to walk/roll into an office that we’ve been to many times before, and somehow that was itself therapeutic.  This is the first time in 48 days that Jim has been someplace other than a hospital!  His pain was decently controlled, and he tolerated the moves and sitting up well, with a few breaks to massage the painful lower back.

The doctor confirmed that bleeding in his eye had caused the bouncing chicken, but she felt like this was fixable.  The shots he normally receives (Vabysmo) are what keep those ruptures from happening, and if the current mass does not reabsorb, she can remove it surgically so his sight can be restored.  That is wonderful news, and we wanted to share it with you.

Meanwhile, J.R. and Duane and Dawn were home tackling our garage, taking a load to the dump, creating space for wheelchair access, receiving the medical equipment delivery of Jim’s hospital bed and other supplies, and addressing the many things that need to be fixed or finished before the house will be ready for sale. What would we do without our army of friends!

Yes, it’s a lot.  It’s dizzying.  Obstacles to progress with Social Security and Medicare abound.  Our edges (well, MY edges) fray at times, and the lack of sleep is beginning to take its toll.

Thank you, friends!  You are all part of our care team. Which rhymes with prayer team, coincidentally. Your prayers matter!

One step at a time.