We’re at a nursing home with Ike-a-saurus in small town Texas for the next 24 hours.
It’s like the slumber party game, “what would you do for twenty dollars?”
Would you put your finger in the furnace?
Eat this poop?
Run naked to the bus stop?
Take your sick trach baby to a nursing home two hours from your house and sign a fucking scary form that says yes, indeed, you want to keep custody of said trach baby?
Well, in return for staying 24 hours in this sad and scary and stinky and germy nursing home, we hugely increase Ike’s chances to qualify for MDCP. It’s a program that will pay for 40 hours of nursing a week, medical supplies and equipment, formula, pretty much everything. But it’s a weird, sketchy process to jump through loopholes so we can avoid the 7 year (!) waitlist.
That’s why we’re here.
I wish I was doing better at making the best of it. I feel like a snobby asshole, to be honest. But I don’t want him to pick up any germs. We can’t have that. Cannot have it.
I wish I could take him out of the room and parade him around. I know the residents would love to see a smiley baby. He could work more magic than a therapy dog. Seriously. But we can’t risk it. And I am sad and freaked out by being here. We’ve already yelled NO when someone tried to touch him on the way in.
In 45 days we’ll know if we qualify for the MDCP.
I think this night itself is going to last 45 days.