The Royal Flush

She's out. Brother Barry collected her from the hospital today. I just spoke to her on the phone and she was bright and cheerful, clearly relieved to just be home. Barry was stamping around in the background, his labours unceasing. She is adamant that there was nothing really wrong with her: 

"I must have been a bit delirious as I don't remember going into hospital, but I feel fine now."

 "How's the infection?"

 "The what?" 

"The infection - that's why you went in in the first place?"

 (off) "Barry, why was I in the hospital?" (mumbling) "It was cellulitus." 

"And dehydration. So you're going to need to eat and drink more."

 "Its hard to eat when you don't want to."

It is hard to eat when you don't want to. And she's still not keen on water. Maybe they should have tested her for rabies. 

They did give her a whole battery tests because of her dramatic weightloss (which she denies - the weightloss, not the tests) and the doctors concluded that, internally at least, she's fine. They had thought she might have cancer but she has none: Cellultis, anemia and dehydration was the Royal Flush. Even her desiccated liver bloomed like a morning flower when it actually got a bit of water. She's a hardy perennial on the inside. Its the outside, her interaction with the hard, intrusive world that's the problem. Her point of connection leaves bruises. She can't walk. She cant really feed herself anymore. Getting in and out of bed is a struggle. She has carers and a cleaner but there are still long hours of the day when she is alone and there is no one about. And anything could happen. 

Still, she's back. She's got vitamin shots coming. She's been fed and watered. She fine. For now, at any rate.