The stitches in Pat's arm are finally out. After dealing with two "visiting physicians" (Alison discovered the outfit) and finding that they don't actually do single jobs, but want to be the primary doctor, I called Accredited Dermatology and persuaded them to let us come in right away. (Would that qualify as a run-on sentence, Sister Gabriel?)
I took the walker for Pat and we got there okay. It's on the second floor, but no sweat, there's an elevator. Oh, but guess what? The elevator is broken.
As Pat can't walk up two stairs, let alone a full flight, I rushed up and asked if the stitches could be taken out in the lobby. Of course not, but Chuck the P.A. ("physician's assistant"), who seems to do everything except brain surgery, suggested we drive to the facility in Toms (no apostrophe to those who give a damn) River and they would take us right away. Well, that's what we did and a woman--somewhere between a nurse and an aide, or she may have been the cleaning lady--took out the stitches in 5 minutes with no problem. She mentioned getting an ointment to prevent a scar, which made us silently sneer. Fer cryin' out loud, Pat has all kinds of bumps and holes and craters on his head and torso and is missing most of one ear because of skin cancer--does she think we're concerned about a scar on his upper arm? It is to laugh.
Anyway, big relief. Rest of day was quiet. I changed the bedclothes, did a lot of wash and was even able to get to Hamilton Mall to return something. Ray came over while I was gone and Pat said they "shot the shit" (unlovely expression) for an hour or so. His bay cronies, George and John, both called, too.
Pat said he wanted to keep his podiatrist appointment today, so we'll go there at 11:00. (I had cancelled, but called back to reschedule.) There's no question he's feeling better, although the breathing is still problematic. Speaking of breathing, I'm breathing sighs of relief that we've come through (I think, anyway--there are no guarantees!) the latest crises.