You know what sucks? I can’t remember all of Quinlans meds. It sounds so unimportant, something so not needed to be filling up space in my brain right now, because we all know that is limited these days, but it’s actually making me kind of upset.
His meds were a HUGE part of our every day lives for 2 years. Our days revolved around his meds. We had a full blown schedule of the names, times, and doses of each one hanging in our kitchen, above our make shift medication station. We got to a point, pretty quickly, of not having to look at the schedule during the multiple times during the days when he needed a medication, it came so natural to us. I would look at the clock and automatically know when it was time to get his meds ready. 8pm was a big one. Knowing he needed 4 (or 5…why can’t I remember!) medications to be prepped in syringes with the water flushes, along with two nebulizers. I could watch Jeopardy and know that as soon as the last contestant answered the final Jeopardy question, I could go prep the meds and be back in time to only miss a few minutes of whatever 8 o’clock show was on that night (and if it took a bit longer, which many times it did, thank goodness for dvr). We had it down to a science. The next meds weren’t given until 10pm but that was typically only 1 or 2 that needed to be prepped. That was nothing in our minds. If it was a night when we had an overnight nurse come “early” (10pm) we wouldn’t have to worry about giving those meds and could go to bed “early” to rest up to do it again the next day. This was just a small part of our daily night time routine every single night, and now I can’t even remember the names of the damn meds.
We had multiple trips to the ER during his time home. Each time we’d inevitably be seen by a different ER doctor than the last time. After asking why were there (most of the time they knew just by looking at us why we were there…f’n seizures) the next question was always “What meds is he on?” Without pause, I rattled off each med, how often it was given, and the dose. No paper necessary. No need to look at each bottle to check the dosage. We had those things memorized. This included 5 daily seizure meds (and an additional couple for emergencies), 2 daily nebulizers (plus a couple additional for when he was junky and needed an extra boost), a reflux med, a vitamin, probiotic, and a partridge in a pear tree (not to mention his feeds that were giving at certain time as well, all somehow stored in this big head of mine). How any other bits of knowledge had space in my brain, I’ll never know.
I know I don’t NEED to continue to remember those seemingly small parts of our life 2 years ago, but those small parts were huge to us.
In a couple months, we will officially have had Quinlan gone from our lives for just as long as he was in our lives. And that scares me. He will always be a part of us no matter what amount of time goes by, but knowing each day is getting further and further away from the last time he was with us, sucks. Those 2 years, 5 months, and 1 day we had with the amazing superhero that he was, were by far some of the hardest, yet sweetest times of our lives. I want to remember every. single. second.
And for those reasons, something as silly as not being able to remember all the meds he took every day is making me sad. Another lovely stop on the mother grieving train.