tasha (tashabear) wrote,
tasha
tashabear

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i'm gonna start in the middle

Wednesday night at Pennsic, Wolfie saw me to bed, and then went walkabout.  He does this sometimes; he likes to party-hop, and I had breakfast duty, so he went alone.

I woke up to thunder and rain at 4:11am, and no Wolfie.  I dozed and fumed, off and on, till about 7:15, when I got up to start breakfast for the camp.  I didn't want to be the hysterical wife and go running off to Security because my husband had been out all night drinking, despite the fact that this was utterly atypical behavior for him.  Some of my campmates tried to console me, suggesting that he might have holed up somewhere to wait out the rain, or that he'd passed out somewhere, but I knew that he'd rather come home wringing wet than worry me, and that he isn't the kind of guy who'd drink to where he'd pass out.  By 9am I was bordering on frantic, and was planning on going to Security after breakfast was over if he hadn't returned by then.

At about 9:15, someone from Chiurgeon's Point (the onsite infirmary) came to our camp, and said some very welcome but terrifying words, "Wolfie's at Chirurgeon's Point, but he's okay."  I don't think she'd finished saying the word "okay" when I was at the end of the lane.  Had I been wearing a bra, I'd have been running.  I stopped only because I also realized that I didn't have a medallion (you need one to get through the checkpoints on site, and I didn't want to have to hurt anyone who tried to stop me getting to Chiurgeon's Point.  The meessenger gave me a ride over in the golf cart, but my household brother Liam still beat us there (we literally had to go around the barn).

When I got there, a friend of mine who's also a chiurgeon met me at the door.  I asked, "Where is he?"  "He's yours?"  "Oh yeah, he's mine."  He led me to the very back of the tent, and there he was, lying on his side, on a gurney.  Robin (my friend) said that they'd gotten a call at 7 or so in the morning from a group down in W20 to come pick up a drunk in a ditch, and that's where they found him.  He had a cut over his left eye that required 4 stitches, and he was covered in blood and dirt and oogie stuff.  After all those hours of worry and wondering whether to kiss, kick, or kill him, I finally knew where he was and what condition he was in, and I just cried on Robin's shoulder.

The next couple of days, he slept a lot, iced the shiner, and didn't do much that was too active (he'd already shot his War Point on the archery range, and it was raining, anyway).  He told us that he'd started home from the party he was at in E26 when the rain started (around 4am), and that the last thing he remembers is turning around and seeing someone behind him, and then he woke up in Chiurgeon's Point.  Three hours, alone, unconscious, in the fucking rain and lightning.  I knew something was wrong, and I hadn't the foggiest idea where to go look for him.  When it rained all day on Friday, I spent a bit of time curled up under my cloak on the bed, absolutely miserable, and it wasn't till this very minute that I realized that the rain was triggering me back to those awful three hours between waking and getting up for breakfast. Bleah.

Saturday was gorgeous -- not too hot, but sunny, and just what we needed to get the canvas dry for packing.  The rugs were soaked (the water was seeping up out of the ground), and everything that was on them that wasn't plastic was also wet, but that stuff can be cleaned and dried.  We travel fairly light; we were actually ready to go by about 2, but hung around for a while longer, helping break down the "community" stuff for storage.  We hit the road at 6 or so, and drove till we were too cross-eyed with exhaustion to see (about 3:30am, which included stops at rest areas for naps).  We stopped for a few hours sleep at a slightly sketchy EconoLodge outside Albany, and then drove the rest of the way home.

We got home at around 2 this afternoon.  After cleaning up the cat poop (Max seems somewhat fixated on the one litter box, and therefore didn't use the others we left), and after Wolfie checked his email, I was up here checking mine, catching up on back LJ posts and writing my Pennsic report, when I had to pee (so nice to have a potty where you know you have enough bog paper), and saw, as I walked by, that Wolfie's eye had swollen to about twice the size it had been when we got home.  He iced it for a bit, and then we realized that he needed to get it looked at when he peeked at it in the mirror and saw that it was oozing goo.

I took him to Lawrence General Hospital, and the ER doc pulled out his stitches and reopened the cut.  The amount of pus and blood and dirt that came out was staggering, both in the sheer quantity and the smell.  The doctor put a length of cotton ribbon called a wick into the wound to keep drawing the goo up and out, and he continued to dab at it the rest of the evening.  The diagnosis is cellulitis of the eyelid; the CAT scan ruled out retro-orbital infection (behind the eyeball), so it's not as bad as it could be.  They admitted him so he could have some heavy-duty IV antibiotics tonight, and we'll see how he's doing in the morning.

It was a little scary and more than a little revolting, seeing all that junk come pouring out of the wound.  But what burns my bacon is that I am told it was a doctor who stitched him up, so it was a doctor who stitched all that dirt into the wound.  If we had not been as vigilant as we were, he could have lost his eye. Right now I'm trying to decide how annoyed I am about all this, and whether I think we should take legal action.  I realize that the damage is minor, but I can't help but wonder if he didn't get the best of care because they smelled the drink on him and assumed that it was a self-inflicted wound, and therefore might not have done the best job they could?  Above all, I don't want this to happen to anyone else.

I'm exhausted, both emotionally and physically.  My parents are in Canada, or I'd be over there right now.  The one person I'd turn to at times like this is the one person I need to be strong for, though he knows I'm hurting for him.  The truck isn't unpacked, and I'm feeling awfully alone.  I just don't want to go to bed.  The large deposit of white Max-fur on the navy blue sheets is a large factor in that, but the lack o'Wolfie is the biggest.

I know he's going to be fine... but right now I feel very small and alone...
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