Abby’s recovery from her bout with MRSA continues at an achingly slow pace. I brought her a scrambled egg sandwich and coffee for breakfast. She had a rough night. Any time Abby has an infection, it flares her rheumatoid arthritis, so last night she was in a considerable amount of pain.
We’re muddling through.
I am also quite sad about Dorothy. For those keeping score, Abby was married to Dorothy Milligan’s youngest son Paul until he died of lung cancer in 1992. Dorothy continues to regard Abby as her daughter-in-law, and me as her adoptive son-in-law.
Right after Christmas, Dorothy fell ill, but doctors repeatedly failed to find anything wrong with her. Her oldest son Tim took her to his home in Arkansas, where a doctor diagnosed her with Guillain–Barré syndrome, a very serious auto-immune disorder. She finally returned home last week after making some recovery, but it was determined that she was unable to care for herself in her home, so this week she moved to Ada Baptist Village, which I think was a very smart move.
As I was making Abby’s breakfast, I looked out the kitchen window across the 100 yards of pasture between our house and Dorothy’s, and while nothing had changed about the outside of her home, the knowledge that she wasn’t there made it seem to look empty and lonely.
Dorothy plans to keep the house for the time being, but I don’t think she will return to living there. Her husband George died in 2006. He and Dorothy built that house by hand in the early 1950s. But as the years have worn on, it has been increasingly difficult for her to care for that house. I told Tim I would keep an eye on it, keep the branches picked up and the grass mowed until the next phase.