E— has been to the doctor three times in the last week for a new abscess, and also complications with the initial incision and drainage sight. We've been treating his staph for a month now. Primary Children's Hospital did a second culture on April 9th, because the first culture done here by the pediatrician came back botched (after four days it grew nothing). This attempt, three bacterial organisms were identified. At least one is staph. When we left the doctor this afternoon, he was researching what the other two were and whether any of them were classified as MRSA. E—is on two new antibiotics—nine doses a day—and has been referred for a second I&D surgery tomorrow morning.
I wish I could say I've got this. I've done very little homework in weeks. I make progress at the sentence level of my essay, and in phrasing edits in poems. I've studied one unit of Greek, and managed to fall in love with W.H. Auden. So not all is lost; just a lot of the all.
E— is still working, still running about Happy Towne untethered. He wraps his abscesses, wears long pants, acts as though he's not plagued by potentially deadly bacteria. His mother, however, is not nearly so brash. I hear she's delicate these days, cries over her powerlessness, counts success in the time she's spent giving her husband and children attention the sort her books never see. In her "free" time, she pots up pansies and alyssum, remembers she's not so far removed from the earth.