II

Blog Birthday. Yay.

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The evening before last, my father was discharged from the hospital, with instructions to continue the intravenous antibiotics he was being given, for two more days. To this end, my mother, who was with him nights at the hospital, was taught how to give these injections.

It appeared simple in the hospital: she watched as the nurse took out the syringe, poked it into the container containing distilled water; transferred the water from the syringe into another bottle containing the powdered antibiotic; shake it up well; transfer it once again into the syringe. The nurse then handed the prepared syringe to my mother, who, with great trepidation, gave my father the injection.

So far so good? Right.

Discharge all done, we came home and it was time to give him a last shot at night. Just as my mother had done struggling with the distilled-water-to-syringe operation, the electricity went off. They waited in the dark, clutching antibiotic and syringe. The light came back on and mother did the syringe-antibiotic-and-back-to-syringe routine. Time to give my father the injection. My father, suddenly recalling that the nurse had twirled some knob on the side of the needle apparatus, told my mother to hang on while he opened it up.

In the meanwhile, the electricity went off again, and some insect that was buzzing around found its way into my mother's ear. She shrieked, dropped the syringe on the bed and ran out to put warm salt water in her ear.

The electricity back, she began to give the injection finally. But it appeared that my father, far from opening the knob, had closed it. Every drop of the antibiotic spilled out. In panic, my father started turning the knob the other way around. My mother poked her finger with the needle and shrieked again. One injection was wasted.

Harsh words having been traded, another injection was prepared. This time, my father said, bitterly, that he would do it himself, thank you very much. He began operations. The electricity went off.

Shining the torch, my mother bethought herself of one more disaster.

I hope there are no air bubbles in that syringe, she said. It could be fatal.

So with that thought in his head and with the knob having been opened too far and stuff leaking out again anyway, my father began to feel giddy. They threw away the second injection, and each lay awake far into the night to make certain they were alive, if not entirely well.

The next morning, we all sensibly decided to go to a nearby hospital and have a nurse give him his injections, never mind what the doctor said about family being more compassionate and all.

That's the story, morning glory. How have all of you been?