Ryan had a better night than the previous. Not ideal, by any means, but with less coughing. We gave him a non-medicated nebulizer treatment — with straight saline — right before turning him on to his side for the first part of the night. Around two o’clock he started getting fidgety, so we rolled him on his back. He seemed to get his best rest after four o’clock.
So I let him sleep in an extra hour and waited until just before seven o’clock to get him out of bed. I nearly always have him up by six. Most days it’s earlier.
It would be oversimplifying it to say every hour matters. Truth is, every minute does. I’m not joking when I tell you that there are not enough of them in the day to get everything in. The math just doesn’t add up. The strange thing is, somehow we get it all done. It defies the physical rules of the universe. I’m scared to think about it much, else Father Time might just take this magic away.
Come this Saturday, it gets even tighter. Ryan begins his monthly HBOT (Hyperbaric Oxygen Treatment) cycle of two sessions of ninety minutes each (three hours a day), eating up roughly twenty percent of his active time. Those thirty days always feel like a pressure cooker, where time is compressed and one glitch will blow the top off the day.
The weekends are so welcomed. I scale back his therapy and allow him more opportunity to rest and recover. I think of these two days as “maintenance” days, where I’m not pushing him to make gains. Days when he simply keeps the status quo and doesn’t lose ground. To me, they are every bit as important to his well-being as the weekdays.
It’s a strange existence. One in which all I have is time, but there’s never enough.