SpinnyNuNu

Police say they arrested the woman after her son was found in the basement of the family's home, bound to a chair with his mouth taped shut.

Students and staff at a California middle school got an unfortunate lesson in proofreading after a derogatory racial slur accidentally made it on the cover of the school's yearbook

She made quite a few adjustments...

I slept for fourteen dreamless hours. When I woke up, Anne was in the living room with our dogs. They were all happy to see me when I staggered out of our bedroom.

We had as close to a normal day as we could expect, a nice and boring day where nothing happened, and we didn’t have to go to the emergency room for any reason. I know we only had to go twice, but it feels like it was so much more than that.

At the end of the day, Anne went to sleep a little bit before I did. I had that kind of fatigue where your body is tired but your mind isn’t ready to shut up and go to sleep, so I stayed up and watched two episodes of American Gods, and then the last three episodes of Bojack Horseman’s second season. I got into bed around 1am, and didn’t realize until I was pulling up the sheets that part of me had been holding my breath, expecting something bad to happen.

I slept for twelve hours. When I woke up, I felt like I’d stayed in bed a little too long, but at least I was caught up on sleep. Anne was eating lunch with our son, Nolan.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her.

“How are you?” She said.

“I asked you first.”

“I’m fine. My incisions are a little sore, but I’m really okay.”

“That’s great,” I said, “and I feel like I’m finally caught up on sleep.”

“High-five!”

“Totally.”

I keep feeling these little bits of tension release, bits of lingering worry that I didn’t know were there until they were gone. We’ve made it through the 24 hours or so after surgery without any complication, and our lives are getting back to normal. The dogs can sense it, too, and are starting to ask for walkies. For the first time in what feels like a month but is only five days, I feel like I can oblige them.

United Airlines is looking into a tense interaction between a flight attendant and a musician who was reportedly told she couldn’t bring her instrument on board.

The rapper practiced what he preached with the "humble" graduation gift.

Some San Joaquin County farmers said that without Mexican workers in the state on federal H-2A visas, many crops would go unpicked because there are not enough workers.

Education Secretary Betsy DeVos indicated discrimination in schools on the basis of sexual orientation is "unsettled" law and a matter for Congress and the courts to address -- not her department.

Trump added, "I'm a little bit upset about that"

Trump tweeted: "Do you notice we are not having a gun debate right now? That's because they used knives and a truck!"

Two proprieters of the Ghost Ship warehouse in Oakland where 36 people died in a fire in December were arrested Monday morning and face criminal charges related to the deadly blaze, a source familiar with the investigation told The Chronicle.

This elite rock climber reached the summit of El Capitan in Yosemite National Park in about four hours using only his hands and feet.

I realize that I’ve been going in circle for an hour, hoping that I’ll bump into something that unlocks a solution to Anne’s suffering. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator. Maybe there’s something on the patio. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch. Maybe if I walk into our bedroom and sit next to her on the bed. Maybe if I hold her hand. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator.

She can’t keep down any food, and barely any liquids. I give her some pain meds and she throws them up almost immediately. Maybe if I hold her hand.

“I’m going to try to just go to sleep,” she says. “You don’t need to stay here.”

I stay there anyway, until she appears to be sleeping. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand.

I gently get off our bed and step over both of our dogs, who haven’t moved from Anne’s side of the bed since she got into it. They both look at me, and maybe I’m projecting, but I feel like there is concern in their eyes. “I’m worried, too,” I whisper. I walk through the living room. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch.

I try to watch TV, but I can’t pay attention. I try to look at the Internet, but I can’t pay attention. I try to read a book but I can’t pay attention. I look into our bedroom. Anne is on her side, and I stand in the doorway, making sure that I can see her breathe. Because that’s a thing I worry about when I’m not worrying about everything else. I walk out to the game room and drive my car around Los Santos, because I don’t have to pay much attention, and it’s a way to pass the time.

It’s just after midnight when Anne texts me: Water.

“Oh, good,” I think, “she can keep water down.” I set the controller down and walk back into the house.

I can hear her wailing, nearly to the point of screaming, as soon as I open the door. My stomach drops out of my body.

She’s leaning against the bed, head in one hand, the other hand holding her side.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stupidly. I know what’s wrong.

“It hurts so much,” she gasps. “I … can’t …”

She doesn’t finish telling me what she can’t do, because what she can’t do is everything.

For the next hour, I try to console her. I try to convince her to take the pills she is convinced she will throw up. Through it all, she is crying out in pain so loudly and intensely, I half expect the police to show up at our house.

“I think I need to take you back to the emergency room,” I say.

“I can’t get up,” she says. “Will you call an ambulance?”

She’s in the most pain I have ever seen another human experience in my life, but I know that there are a finite number of ambulances, and there are people for whom one of them could be the difference between life and death.

“I need to get you eighty feet to the car,” I tell her. “Let me carry you, and we’ll get there faster.”

She tries to argue a little bit, but I pick her up and help her out of bed through it. The dogs are alert and looking at her, at me, at each other. “I’m okay,” she gasps to them.

“We’ll be right back,” I say, as we limp past them and across the house. Time does the thing it’s been doing, stretching out and compressing and it feels longer than it should take for us to get into the car. I notice that there’s fog rolling in, glowing orange from the streetlights. I drive us to the hospital through it, faster than I probably should. Anne kicks her legs and cries silently.

When we get to the ER, I park at the door. I run in and get a wheelchair. There are four people in the waiting room, and when I get Anne out of the car and into the waiting room, two of them are gone. I tell the receptionist that Anne has a terrible kidney stone, can’t keep anything down, and I didn’t know what else to do. She pulls up the information we gave a different person in this exact place twenty-four hours earlier and we wait. I feel useless while Anne cries and moans in pain, and I just watch the clock. It’s thirty minutes before we are taken inside. It’s another thirty minutes before a nurse gives Anne morphine. Another thirty minutes before she comes back in and gives Anne more. I realize that time is moving in thirty minute increments. Maybe if I sit on the edge of the gurney next to her.’

A doctor comes in. She looks concerned and I do my best to disappear while she talks to Anne. She listens while Anne recounts the last 48 hours, then she does some simple tests, including this thing where she pushes on Anne’s abdomen and pulls away quickly. Anne screams in pain.

“That isn’t normal for a kidney stone or constipation,” the doctor says. “I’m going to get you an ultrasound, and some more pain medication.” Then, she does something I realize that the two other doctors we’ve seen since this all started didn’t do: she takes a moment and says, “I’m so sorry that you’re in so much pain, and I’m sorry that hurt so much. We’re going to figure out what’s going on with you, and I won’t send you home until we do.”

I realize how unhelpful the two male doctors we saw were, and I allow myself the luxury of being angry at them, if only briefly.

The doctor excuses herself and a nurse comes back in, gives Anne some more pain meds, and makes some notes on her chart. It is around 3:30am. Anne sleeps a little bit, and I sit in the chair next to her gurney. Maybe if I rest my hand on her leg. I wait.

An orderly comes in and helps Anne into a wheelchair. He takes Anne to the ultrasound. I climb into the gurney and try to sleep.

It feels like no time has passed when they’re back and I feel like I haven’t slept at all, even though I must have because I can’t account for the time. Anne tells me that it hurt a lot, and another nurse comes back in, gives her more pain medications. I make a joke about how she’s used more drugs than the Rolling Stones. Did I make that joke before? The last time we were here? I can’t remember. I’m so afraid and so worried and I feel so helpless and I’m so tired. I want to cry but I can’t because it won’t be helpful to anyone.

I wait.

The doctor comes back and tells Anne that the ultrasound shows something called an ovarian torsion. She thinks that a cyst burst, and it was so big when it happened, it literally spun Anne’s ovary around. She tells us that there’s a dark shadow on the CT scan we had the last time we were there, and it’s in stark contrast to her other ovary that’s healthy. She doesn’t say it, but she seems incredulous that neither of the other doctors we saw seemed to notice it. I allow myself another moment of anger, but I keep it to myself.

“I have called the OB/GYN and she’s driving in. We’re going to admit you, and have that ovary removed,” she says. Anne has some questions. I have some questions. I don’t remember what we asked or what her answers were.

We wait, and it doesn’t feel as long as all the previous waits have been. The surgeon arrives and she asks Anne lots of questions. She examines her. She looks at Anne’s CT scan and her ultrasound. I realize just how utterly, totally, profoundly unhelpful the other doctors we saw before this night were. I remember a woman, speaking at a ceremony when Anne was given an award for National Women’s Health Week. She said, “women need to work in medical research, and in applied medicine, because too many men treat women’s bodies like they are just men’s bodies with female parts, but our bodies are fundamentally different and need to be treated that way.”

I know that an ER doctor’s primary responsibility is to keep people alive, and it’s logical that the ones who aren’t in life-threatening danger will get a different level of attention. But when we went to Anne’s primary care doctor he didn’t even ask about anything else, didn’t check her at all, and just gave her six different types of pills. I don’t know why the ER doctor didn’t even ask why one of Anne’s ovaries was a big dark mass, even after all the tests for kidney stones came back negative, but I understand why he tried to manage her pain and turned us over to another doctor to look at her more closely. While I sit in that chair and listen to this new doctor talk with Anne, I can’t excuse or understand the other doctor we saw not even trying to look into whether or not there was a misdiagnosis in the ER. I get angry when I realize that my wife, the most important person in my world, has suffered longer than she should have, because two men didn’t ask themselves if pain originating in part of a woman’s body that is fundamentally different from a man’s body may have something to do with that difference.

But the OB/GYN is kind, and she tells Anne that she’s sorry to meet her under these circumstances. She tells Anne that she can get this ovary out with a quick surgery, and that Anne will be able to go home later this afternoon. I glance at my watch. It’s 7am. I’ve been awake for 24 hours.

The OB tells us that she’s going to do laparoscopy (a word I’ve written so many times in the last ten hours, I should know how to spell but still don’t), which will require general anaesthesia (another word I can’t see to spell, though I’ve written it almost as much). My stomach clenches because I grew up in a medical family, and I know that there are risks associated with anaesthesia. I know that they are small, but they are greater than zero, and I’ve been awake for 24 hours, on about five or six hours of restless sleep, and my rational brain is easily knocked into submission by my emotional brain. I keep my concerns to myself, because expressing them around Anne won’t be helpful. I realize that I’ve been keeping a lot to myself, because to express any of it wouldn’t be helpful. I’ve been holding myself together, delivering what will be, at least to this point in my life, the most convincing performance I’ve ever given.

The orderly comes into the room and we begin the journey to surgery. All the hallways look alike, and the same grey light of early morning that I first saw when all of this started two days ago is filling the windows. I notice that we haven’t seen any other people since we came in. I guess it was a quiet night in the ER, and it’s a quiet morning in the hospital.

We stop outside the operating room. We have forgotten to tell them that Anne is allergic to latex, so they have to clear the OR and wipe everything down, and start over. I apologize, but nobody is bothered (or at least they don’t let on that they’re bothered.) Anne holds my hand and we just look at each other while we wait. I don’t want to think about how something could go wrong — however unlikely that is — and I may have to face life without her, but I’m so tired and so emotionally raw, I can’t not think about it. I don’t mention it to Anne, because it wouldn’t be helpful.

They finish up in the OR, and the surgeon comes over to tell us that she’s ready. The anaesthesiologist (nope, can’t spell that one, either) is a gentle man. He tells us what he’s going to do, asks if there are any questions, and leaves me with a feeling of confidence that everything will be okay. I know there’s no reason not to be confident, that there’s no rational reason not to worry, but I can’t help it.

I kiss Anne. We tell each other that we love each other. I don’t want to hope that it isn’t the last time, but I can’t help it.

“I’ll see you before you know it,” I tell her. When they wheel her toward the OR, I lamely say to the surgeon, “please take good care of my wife.” She tells me that she will. She doesn’t tell me that OF COURSE SHE WILL BECAUSE THAT IS HER JOB. I’m sure it’s not the first time a worried husband has said this to her.

A nurse takes me to the waiting room and tells me that it will be about two hours. I decide that I’m going to go home, feed our dogs, and take a shower. Maybe I’ll try to eat. I’ve been awake for 25 hours.

I almost crash twice on the way home. Maybe it’s not as close as I think it is, but it’s too close. The dogs interrogate me when I come into the house and they look for Anne. I tell them what’s going on because I have to talk to someone and everyone else we know is asleep. I make some food. I take a shower. I make and drink two cups of coffee, and go back to the hospital. I make my way to the waiting room and sit down. I try to watch TV but it’s a blur. I try to close my eyes but when I do, my brain relentlessly plays out the rest of my life without Anne in it. And I don’t just mean the images. I mean the emotion and the loss and the loneliness and the reality that I will be adrift and lost for the rest of my life if anything happens to her. I sit up, open my eyes, and I just walk around the empty room, grateful that there isn’t anyone else there.

Her surgeon comes in and tells me that everything went well. Anne is in recovery and I can see her in about thirty minutes. She shows me pictures from the laparoscope, because Anne asked for them. Anne has more pictures of the inside of her body than a human should have, because she always asks for them. It’s one of the things I love about her. So her surgeon points out how her one ovary is healthy and the one they took out was enlarged my several factors, and almost completely black because it was filling up with blood. She shows me the twist. It’s almost microscopic. “It’s the same kind of pain that a man would experience if he had a testicular torsion,” she tells me. “It’s one of the worst pains a woman can experience.” I thank her several times. I know that I’m repeating myself. I know that I’m delirious. I know that I’m exhausted. I know that I’m not making any sense. I know that I am relieved beyond measure. She shakes my hand, tells me that she wants to see Anne next week for a follow up, and leaves.

I walk up to the room where Anne will be recovering. I pull out a reclining chair to try and rest while I wait for her, but my brain is now overtired and caffeinated, so I just look out the window and watch the sun burn off the little bit of lingering fog and haze. I hear movement behind me and turn around to find an orderly pushing Anne into the room. A wave of relief washes over me and I again feel like I’m going to cry. “Good morning,” I say to them both.

“How are you?” He asks.

“Entering my 27th hour since I last got any real rest, but okay, I guess.”

“Hi, puss,” Anne says. She smiles a little bit and I reach out to hold her hand.

“How are you feeling?” I say.

“I’m thirsty.”

I get her some water. A nurse comes in and does nurse stuff. I sit in the chair, and I drift off to sleep for about three hours, forty or so minutes at a time.

The texts begin to arrive, from our friends who are waking up. They’ve read my blog, they’ve seen our posts on Twitter. Everyone offers whatever help they can give us. I’m grateful to all of them, and grateful that Anne, who they all love so much, has chosen me to be the guy she married. I go to the cafeteria and eat hospital food. I come back and sit with Anne while she rests and recovers. She doesn’t hurt, and there’s very little residual gas in her abdomen. She is able to get up and use the bathroom. She is able to walk around. She can eat. She is going to be okay. Around 5pm, they discharge her. We’ve been in the hospital for eighteen hours. I’ve slept for three hours in the last two days.

We get home. Anne’s friends have flowers delivered, and then they have dinner delivered for us both. I’m so tired and so emotionally exhausted, I feel like I’m going to cry from so many different kinds of relief, but I just eat, instead. Anne eats. She walks around the house and farts. I fart back her her when I can. We laugh. She’s going to be okay.

I’m overtired and don’t get into bed until about eleven. Anne is already asleep. Our dogs are on the floor at the foot of the bed. Seamus is snoring. Marlowe is chasing something in her sleep. Watson is on the back of the chair. I turn off the light and slide the covers up. The sheets are cool and soft and the bed is as comfortable as it’s ever been in my life. I hold Anne’s hand while I drift off.

I sleep for almost fourteen hours. I wake up with a headache, but Anne is doing great. She’s in the living room with our pets, watching TV. She tells me that she slept well, and isn’t in any major pain. She’s been able to eat.

I try to have a normal day. I keep checking on her. She’s doing fine, and naps in our bedroom. She lets me hold her hand and sit on the edge of the bed and give her food and stroke her hair.

There are hundreds of comments on my blog that I haven’t had time to read. There are thousands more on social media that I will never be able to reply to. People who don’t know Anne love her, and I know how lucky I am to have her in my life. I’m too tired to go anywhere or do anything, but I have too much boiling around inside of me to do nothing, so I sit down to type it all out, because that’s how I process things.

The weight of the last few days crashes down on me while I write this. I listen to Hamilton. It’s Quiet Uptown, and I cry as hard as I have in recent memory. I was so scared and felt so helpless and I’m so grateful that the most important person in my world is just a few steps away in another room, recovering, trying not to laugh too hard at the Sarah Silverman comedy special she’s watching, because it hurts her stomach when she does.

We have more time.

Things stick to the inside of any container, but one company is working on a solution that will soon be coming to your home.

An Iowa man set out on a journey to prove you can eat healthy anywhere.

He reportedly wrote, “I ain’t going to lie, I think I killed her.”

Watson, our cat, is walking around the house, making his morning announcements. I pry my eyes open, and see that there is the faintest hint of soft, grey light pushing itself against the edges of our bedroom shades.

I don’t feel too tired, surprisingly, and I lie in bed while I decide if I’m going to just go ahead and get up. I have a commitment in the evening, and I’ll probably be really wiped out by the time it’s over, but on the other hand, I won’t be struggling to fall asleep before midnight … unless my brain pulls the same bullshit it’s been pulling for weeks.

The next thing I know, the sun is blazing through the windows and I can hear Anne. She doesn’t sound good. She’s breathing heavily and making sounds like she’s in pain. So I get out of bed, and I’m in the other room before I’m fully awake. She’s clutching her side and writhing in pain.

“Something’s wrong,” she says. “I need you to take me to the emergency room.”

That’s all it takes for my brain to throw off any lingering sleepiness. Before I realize it, I’m dressed and ready to leave. We drive to the emergency room, and she’s in so much pain now that she can’t stand up. She tells me that her hands are getting numb and she feels like she’s going to pass out. The ER receptionist doesn’t seem to think any of this is serious, and barks at me to sit down and wait.

I know that everyone who comes into the ER is certain that they have the worst thing that’s ever happened, and I know that it gets tiring for the receptionist. I also believe that if you can’t be compassionate and patient, maybe it’s not the best job for you to have. I also know that there’s no point in having an argument right now, and my energy is better spent trying to help my increasingly panicking wife.

So another hospital guy comes over and asks what’s going on. I tell him, and he calmly listens. He tells Anne that she’s going to be okay, and he’ll get her into triage as quickly as possible.

There, I think, that wasn’t so hard.

Time takes on the strange malleability that comes with intense stress. It slows down and speeds up and doesn’t seem to move at the fixed rate I’ve come to expect from a lifetime of existence. After some amount of time that isn’t as long as I think it is, but not fast enough for me, we are in triage. The nurse is gentle and compassionate. She asks Anne lots of questions while I sit quietly and try to stay out of the way. They take her vitals. She has no fever, but her pulse is as high as you’d expect.

We are moved into a room, and they put her in a bed. She’s crying harder than I’ve seen in over twenty years together. I remember the last time we were in this ER, our roles reversed. I vaguely recall that Anne remained calm, and it helped me, so I do my best to do the same.

A nurse puts a needle into her arm and draws blood. Another nurse comes in and puts some morphine into her. It doesn’t help, so they give her more. That helps a little bit, but it’s still not enough. They can’t do anything else until a doctor gives the okay, and someone has just come into the ER who is in a more life-threatening situation, so we wait.

More time passes, and a doctor comes in. He gives her all the same tests she’s already been given. She continues to endure the worst pain I’ve ever witnessed in our twenty-plus years together. “This is worse than both times I gave birth,” she says, trying to make a joke to the doctor, but the clear agony in her voice claws at my heart. She’s suffering and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Finally, the doctor orders some more morphine, and now time becomes very clear because I count each of the twenty-seven minutes she waits until someone brings it in for her. I know that she isn’t in life-threatening danger, and we both know that the ER is very busy, but our emotional brains and our rational brains are experiencing that knowledge in very different ways.

She gets another push of morphine. The nurse tells us that once the morphine starts to work, they’re going to get a urine sample and then do a CT scan. Another twenty minutes goes by, because everything happens in twenty minute increments when you’re in pain but not in danger. They take her to get a CT scan, and I walk out to find something to eat.

It’s a beautiful day. It’s one of the most beautiful days we’ve had in a long time, sunny but not too hot. We had planned to spend it working in the patio garden, and building a window box for our front porch that will get filled with sunflowers. I walk up the street and into a cafe, where I get a coffee and a sandwich. A lady behind me is impatient. She has the voice and body language of someone whose experience at the hospital is not as routine as ours is. I pay as fast as I can so I can get out of her way, and I silently wish her well. I get my sandwich and my coffee. Neither is as good as what I’d make at home, but I don’t complain. I remember the lady behind me, the people in the ER who have sick babies, the woman the ambulance brought in who had a stroke, and doesn’t know her name or where she is. Her adult daughter, who is more tired and sad than worried.

I finish my sandwich on my way back to Anne’s room. She isn’t there when I sit down. I open my phone and start reading a book I’ve been wanting to read. Another twenty minutes goes by and they bring her back in. The meds are working, and she has her humor back. She isn’t as pale. She looks like my wife again. We wait for an hour (three blocks of twenty minutes) for the test results. Patients fill up the hallway, and we’re grateful that we have a room with just one bed in it. A woman in the room next to us can’t stop throwing up. Someone at the nurse’s station has an alert on their phone that sounds like the Hanna-Barbera running in place effect when they get an alert, and they seem to be getting one about every thirty seconds or so. A nursery rhyme tune plays in all the overhead speakers, because someone has just given birth. I email the people I’m supposed to be working with in three hours and tell them I have to cancel because I’m spending the entire day in the emergency room.

Anne drifts in and out of sleep, and I read until my battery dies. The doctor comes in and tells her that there isn’t anything on the CT scan, or the MRI, and that her blood and urine are all clear and normal. She’s presenting all the symptoms of someone who has a kidney stone, but they can’t find anything in her tests to confirm it. Apparently, this happens in thirty percent of cases. That seems like a lot of percent, I say. The doctor is not amused. I shut up and try to disappear again.

They give her more pain meds because we’ve been there so long, the first two doses are wearing off. We have to wait another hour, and then we can go home. I get my notebook out and break a story that I’ve been thinking about for awhile. I get up and walk around a little bit. I begin to worry about my wife, because she’s clearly having a problem, clearly in distress, clearly in all kinds of pain, and the doctors and nurses can’t tell us, definitively, why. I decide that she’s suffering because of a small dwarf, or spirit, living in her stomach. I am not amused. I get a brain zap, and realize that I forgot to take my antidepressants before we left, and I have just about ninety minutes (twenty times four plus half of twenty minutes) before the dizziness, nausea, and other fun withdrawal starts. I don’t tell this to Anne, because she doesn’t need another thing to worry about.

An hour later, we get ourselves together so we can leave. A lady I haven’t seen before wheels in a computer and tells us we have a co-payment. She’s friendly, but all business, very different from the rest of the staff. I pay her. She gives me a receipt and I tuck it into a folder that we’re to take to our doctor within three days if Anne doesn’t improve. Neither of us knows that we’ll be at the doctor in less than 24 hours, because she won’t be better.

Anne leans on me as we walk out of the room. I’m ready to get home, eat some real food, and take my brain pills. Sounds are starting to feel louder than they are, like they’re echoing down long metal tubes. I’m going to have a headache soon. In the next room over, the vomiting lady is asleep, the stroke lady is holding her daughter’s hand. Down the all, a little boy who broke his arm is looking at his cast over tear-stained cheeks. A guy about my age who looks beaten up is in a gurney near the end of the hallway. There are two cops standing next to his bed. “I think I’m going to throw up,” Anne says. I try to find her a barf bag, give up, and ask a nurse for help.

The nurse brings her a bag, and Anne sits down in a wheelchair that is luckily next to her. The nurse is kind. She gets Anne some medication that helps with nausea. She doesn’t vomit. We both thank her, and I wheel Anne out into the parking lot. The sun is on its way down the western sky, the hospital casts a long shadow over the parking lot. I help Anne into the car and take the wheelchair back to the entrance, where an orderly takes it from me.

We get home. The dogs are on alert when we walk into the house. They can tell that something’s wrong with their Alpha Female. The sniff at her, follow her back to our bedroom, lie down at the foot of our bed when she gets into it. They don’t move until it’s time for them to eat, later, and then they go right back to where they were.

I am grateful to be home, and remind myself that we didn’t have it nearly as bad as some of the people around us today … but the worry that something more serious is going on with the most important person in my life, something that I can’t do anything about, something that I can’t identify … that worry begins to really flare up. It will continue — is happening right now, 36 hours later — and there’s nothing I can do about it but hope for the best. I take my pills, and twenty minutes later my brain is more or less back to what passes for normal in my skull. I go to the pharmacy and fill her prescriptions. I get her some soup. I come home. I make myself a basic dinner and give her canned soup because that’s what she wants when she doesn’t feel well.

I eat my food, and try to watch TV, but I can’t really focus on much of anything. I try to read more of the book I started, but I realize that I’ve gone through several pages without paying attention. I tap around on a mobile game until midnight. I wake Anne up to give her more pain pills, and then I go to sleep, myself.

It is 9am, and she’s in bad shape. We call the doctor for a 1045 appointment, which I cancel at 10 when she can’t get out of bed because she hurts so much. I finally take her at 2pm, and the doctor tells us the same thing the ER doctor told us: he doesn’t know what’s going on, but it doesn’t seem to be more serious than a kidney stone. All she can do is manage the pain and wait for the stone to pass, if that’s actually what it is. Here’s a pile of pills to try. Good luck. I am not satisfied, and want to know more, but he doesn’t have any more answers. At least he doesn’t seem concerned, so I do my best to put my trust in his professional knowledge. It doesn’t work as completely as I hope, sort of like the meds they’ve been giving Anne.

I take her home, go and fill more prescriptions, and give her more pills when I return, hoping one of them will work.

The twenty minutes I wait to find out if she’s feeling any relief seems to stretch out forever, so I sit down and write out the last 36 or so hours, because that’s how I process things.

The attacks killed seven people in a busy section of London and wounded about 50 people.

Jack O'Neill, the eye patch wearing wetsuit pioneer who trail-blazed coldwater surfing, has died.

Trump has shied away from giving his opinion on whether climate change is real.

Add this to the list of absurdities from the Trump Administration: the Justice Department (DOJ) is arguing that the AFL-CIO and the United Steelworkers (USW) should rely on DOJ attorneys to defend an Obama-era OSHA regulation. Seriously?

The rule that DOJ says it will defend on the unions’ behalf was adopted by OSHA in May 2016 and concerns the reporting of injuries by employers. It is being threatened by a frivolous lawsuit brought the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, National Association of Home Builders, and the National Chicken Council.  The business associations filed their lawsuit in the U.S. district court for the western district of Oklahoma—a venue they believe will favor them—to argue against the OSHA rule.

Soon afterwards, the AFL-CIO and USW filed a motion to intervene in the case to defend the OSHA rule. The unions argue they should be granted the right to participate in the lawsuit because they have more than 12 million members who are affected by the new regulation and they were active participants in the rulemaking proceedings which led to the new OSHA reporting rule.

But in a brief dated May 30, DOJ attorneys told the court that the unions do not meet all of the requirements to justify being a party to the litigation. They say:

“The unions do not satisfy the fourth requirement because they have not shown—and could not show—that the Government would inadequately represent their interests.”

They also write:

“any member of the public who seeks to intervene as of right in defense of a regulation must first clear a high bar…. [that their] interest is not adequately represented by existing parties.”

In other words, the unions should rely on Trump’s DOJ to defend OSHA’s regulation. Let’s think about that for a moment. This is the same Trump administration that is requiring agencies to identify two regulations to repeal for any single regulation the agency may want to implement. It’s also the same Trump administration that has teams set up in every agency to identify regulations to repeal, replace, or modify. And the same Trump administration that has already suspended indefinitely the compliance date for this exact OSHA injury reporting rule. So why would unions trust this administration to defend the rule vigorously against the Chamber of Commerce et al’s frivolous lawsuit?

In OSHA’s 47 year history, it is unprecedented for the government to object to a union intervening to defend an OSHA regulation. But I’ve gotten used to the words “unprecedented” and “Trump” being used in the same sentence.

But I learned the following by reading the AFL-CIO and USW’s motion to participate in the lawsuit:

“Even when an applicant for intervention and the government seek the same outcome in a lawsuit, the Tenth Circuit has “repeatedly recognized that it is ‘on its face impossible’ for a government agency to carry the task of protecting the public’s interests and the private interests of a prospective intervenor.” (citing Utahns for Better Transp. v. U.S. Dept. of Transp., 295 F.3d 1111, 1117 (10th Cir. 2002));

A group of public interest organizations also filed a motion to participate in the litigation to defend the OSHA injury reporting rule. They are the American Public Health Association (APHA), Public Citizen, the Council of State and Territorial Epidemiologists, and Center for Media and Democracy. These groups are expecting to hear from DOJ by June 12 about their motion. I suspect they will read the same DOJ nonsense to “trust us” that the unions heard.

As an APHA member, I say “trust Trump’s DOJ? Not gonna happen.”

[Update 6/13/2017: As expected, the DOJ filed a motion to restrict APHA and the other groups from being intervenors in the case.  I await the judge’s decision.]

Ariana Grande spent time with a fan who is recovering in the hospital after being injured during the Manchester Arena attack.

The all-female staffing and the special screenings of the superhero movie have sparked an uproar among some male moviegoers.

According to court documents, the man wanted to kill his ex-girlfriend.