Caregiver’s Log: Day 985
4:00 am: Awaken, astonished by your internal body clock’s ability to snap you out of a deep sleep at precisely 4:00 am. Every single morning, like a mother with a newborn. Mutter a quick request of the Universe to be open to whatever comes next and help you help others. Stand in front of mirror repeating the three pages of affirmations your AA sponsor has you write as part of the amends you’ve never made to yourself, even after twenty years of sobriety.
4:05 am: Arm yourself with a pot of Dark Magic coffee. Write for a half hour in your Clairefontaine notebook, purchased a half dozen at a time. Draft this week’s blog post, “Drama Mama.”
5:00 am: Prepare Round One of your husband’s three-a-day IV antibiotic infusions. Administer with freshly-scoured and gloved hands. Scrub PICC line with alcohol wipe. Inject saline flush. Alcohol wipe. Inject antibiotic over the span of the longest five minutes of your life. Alcohol wipe. Inject saline flush. Alcohol wipe. Inject Heparin. Alcohol wipe. Smile when he says, “This better fucking work,” and respond a little too brightly: “It will! Stay positive!”
Dispose of medical waste accordingly. Wash hands.