Gardening at night

It is finally getting dry here. Not California-dry by any means, but dry enough that watering the plants every other day may not be enough any more. I especially worry about the ones which are blooming, like the azaleas (bringing them in over the winter has blown whatever natural cycle they were on completely to hell) and geraniums. We're still hoping for a rebloom of the dahlia, given how spectacular it was briefly, and I just spotted a bud on one of the clemates, which is rather unexpected.

The garden is rangy as well. I let the greens go to seed thinking that would give us another crop for the coming cool weather, but it probably makes way more sense just to rip them all out and reseed from the bag. I didn't expect the cardoon to survive, but it has, though whether we'll ever see a harvest from it is another question entirely. The heirloom rose in the back is completely out of control and will need to be hacked back again, but the autumn-blooming clematis is being bizarrely restrained.

I wish we knew what was going on between Scooter and his wife. Since she said he was moving out, we haven't seen any signs that he has. But this weekend he wasn't around at all so monshu and I had to jump in to water the lawn. (The brief thunderstorm last week dropped relatively little rain and I'm not expecting much from the storms predicted tonight.) I don't need to know any gory details, I just need to find out if he's going to be around so I know what kind of transition planning we need to do to make sure everything doesn't go to hell around the condo.

I have some more planting to do--lots more pots from Fig, scores of seeds to plant--but I want to wait for cooler weather. Not just for my own sake, of course, but to help guarantee survival. The wildflower seeds shouldn't go into the ground until 6 weeks before the first frost anyway in order to ensure that they stay dormant until next spring. Same goes for the bulbs which I hope my jerry-rigged storage system in the basement has preserved relatively intact.

Agley

The Old Man was late this year in asking what I wanted to do for my birthday. I dithered for a while, since part of me really wanted an excuse to escape the city. We had floated the possibility of an overnight in some outlying hamlet, such as St Charles, but this weekend was the local arts fest which a great chance to see people. We'd even run into a couple of friends by chance on our last trip downtown and assured them we'd see them there and I floated the idea in the gaming group of making a group outing. Plus Graysong was coming up from Chattanooga to hawk his wares.

Eventually, a plan coalesced: Friday, after monshu's checkup, we would meet up with JB and his husband for drinks at Social at 6 followed by drinks with Graysong &co at the Glenwood, then we'd all go to dinner somewhere nearby--probably the tapas place on Pratt. Saturday, there was a dedication of an honorary street for Mozhu's departed husband in the morning. Afterwards, we'd do lunch together, then the GWO and would do the arts fest and go for dinner afterwards, probably just the two of us. Sunday I was slated to help clintswan with his yard sale.

None of that happened.

At monshu's checkup, he was complaining of pain in his stomach and lower back. His doctor was concerned this could be a bowel obstruction and sent us to the ER for a CT scan. He wanted it with oral contrast, which takes about an hour-and-a-half to work it's way into your intestines, so they didn't take him until shortly before 7 p.m. In the meantime, they diagnosed a urinary-tract infection and gave him morphine for the pain. Around 9 p.m. or so they decided to admit him.

Fortunately it wasn't the bowel which was obstructed, it was the ureter. We knew the solution for this was relatively straightforward, since it's exactly what he was diagnosed with last November. By 10 a.m. the next morning, we knew that they wouldn't be implementing it that day since it was considered a non-emergency situation and, thus, not worth calling in the IR team from home. But we couldn't go home until the urologist had actually seen him and signed off on this plan. That took eight hours.

For most of that time, I alternated between bored and frustrated. You'd think this would be a great opportunity to get reading done, and I did do some, but I'd slept badly, so between the sleepiness and the possibility of interruption at any point, I couldn't concentrate very well. That gave me plenty of time to ponder what a fucked-up situation it is when the only person involved who has a compelling interest in seeing a patient go home was the patient himself and his interests are the most poorly-served by the system.

The hospital doesn't need to send to him home because they get something like $11,000 a day for keeping him there. When you have a patient who needs so little attention (by midday, they'd even removed his IV and started giving him solid food), that's basically free money. Plus they're worried about being sued if something happens at home. And, of course, it's good for their occupancy stat. The doctor doesn't need to send him home because it's easier for him if his subjects are captive. The Old Man's primary advised me when I began making the case for discharge that he'd get an appointment for the procedure much sooner if he was already in the hospital.

But our arguments carried the day. The urologist agreed to the release before even viewing him and, miraculously, the staff got the paperwork processed in less than an hour. We were home in time for a late dinner, which--since I needed to run to the pharmacy to pick up more antibiotics--was a take-out pistacchio e speck pizza from Antica Pizzeria. I had people still willing to take me out for drinks, but I was worn out and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed.

I woke up the next morning refreshed and started some laundry so I could get it out of the way. clintswan had generously offered to take me to the beach, following which we'd do the Arts Fest if monshu felt up to it. But my stomach was hurting all morning and my little friend was plump tuckered from shifting all his furniture the day before. The Old Man and I had a stupid little spat about the upstairs sink and I announced to him I was going to Middle Eastern Bakery for a potato pie, the only thing I really felt like eating at that moment.

He volunteered to get it for me and I told him I'd rather we went together. While waiting for a bus back home, I exchanged some texts with Mozhu and realised she was waiting on our doorstep, deciding that she really needed to see us after going so very long without a visit. "You don't have to invite me in," she explained and kept apologising for her "home invasion", but it did us good to see her. She was feeling a bit bereft, since the street dedication was the last planned formal event for her husband. "Now my life alone really begins," she said and I was glad to be there to give her hugs.

We did make it to the arts fest, but after an hour or so the Old Man started feeling queegy and left. I held on, determined to see as many people as I could, and made out pretty well. Dinner was less successful--BDA bought me some yoghurt and pasta salad at the Morse Market, which was a welcome supplement to the mediocre lomein I got from a street stall, then we joined the pizza party at Moustache Rides, where I nibbled on a couple crusty pieces. (So cracker-thin and devoid of sauce, they were almost St Louis style--minus the provel, of course.) Some hugs, one more visit to Graysong as he was packing up his booth, and I was on my way home again.