This morning, I awoke in a puddle of bodily fluids. They weren’t my own.
Is that better or worse?
Ziggy had urinary blockages on and off for months this past March, April, and May, and I thought the worst was behind us. Last night, however, he was snuggling with me and peed on me—and my MediPort, which remains accessed for daily hydration while I slog through the rest of these antibiotics. Eight more days. And then who knows?
I contacted the home nurse, who is off on the weekends, and she told me to go to urgent care to have my dressing changed. First, I had to shower and drape all my furniture with cloth and protective pads in case Ziggy is leaking. Then I headed to urgent care. The nurse said she thought she’d heard it all when I said, “My sick cat peed on my MediPort.”
I am back from urgent care now. Ziggy is going to see his doctor at 1 pm. I think the doctor is going to recommend cutting his penis off. Poor Zigs. He’s wandering around the apartment now, oblivious.
If the pee infected my MediPort, I’ll know if I spike a fever.
We await our fates.
While I wait for Ziggy’s appointment, I put on a mud mask because the antibiotics, in addition to the usual litany of indignities, are also causing my chest, neck, back, and face to break out. Earlier this week, I had a day of beauty and a blow-out, which helped me get a little bit of the post-hospital ick out of my system. I look good as a lady of leisure.
Everyone keeps telling me to take it easy. I hate taking it easy. I’ve watched a few TV shows. I’ve ordered takeout a few times. 
Yesterday, I ran out of painkillers for my liver pain and so I had to go into MSKCC on 53rd and 3rd Streets. Today I have to go to people and cat doctors. Even when I want to take it easy, I can’t.
Hopefully, I can just make it through the next week as uneventfully as possible.