This was the week I heard the welcome news that not only can my husband’s condition be treated with neuro-surgery, it can be done in a minimally invasive way at a hospital not far from here. I’m grateful for the diagnosis and grateful for the wonders of modern surgery. I’m not so grateful for the Bermuda Triangle of Radio Silence I now find myself in.

On Monday Hospital No. 1 discharged Mr F. The baton passed to Hospital No. 2, who, said Hospital No. 1, would call us within a day or two. Today is Friday, which means three full working days have elapsed. Unless the Feast of the Annunciation counted as time out.

So now what? Maybe Hospital No. 2 is full of very sick people. Maybe the transfer papers fell down the back of a filing cabinet. How am I supposed to know? Who is currently responsible for my husband’s health, apart from me? And I didn’t even take First Aid Level 1. What is the difference between acting like a concerned relative and becoming a royal pain in the ass?

I was raised to wait my turn, play nicely, believe what doctors told me. But now half of those doctors are young enough to be my kids and anyway I’m running out of niceness. I’m down to my reserve tank and a little red indicator  is flashing. MAKE A FUSS it says. NOW.  

But further good news. After weeks struggling with a virus-ridden computer I found a fix: an affordable package called VIPRE that deep-cleaned my system and nailed the little bastard that was preventing me from surfing or even getting into my own website. Normal blogging service is now resumed. Yey!