As I said before, I started documenting my recovery from illness almost as soon as I woke up from sedation.

When I first woke up, I didn’t think I lost any abilities. I was wrong. It’s been 18 months and I’m just now sort of getting to where I was before. I still haven’t regained all of my abilities, but I’m reassured by my mother that she sees improvements in my abilities often.

One of the things I did, was list the things I had done for the first time since getting sick, and put big colourful boxes around the statement “this can go under the category of things I haven’t done before since I was sick”, when I did do something new.

Almost a month after entering ICU: “Read without covering one eye”.

When I first awoke from sedation, I couldn’t read. The words were just squiggly lines. As I got better, I could read with one eye covered, and then it was only Archie Comics that were lettered by Bill Yoshida (not even all the stories), and then large print books. Finally this month, started a novel for the very first time.

I always have had dyslexia, but my dyslexia became so much worse when I was sick.

A month after going into the ICU: “I’m not seeing just shapes anymore, which is good.” Yes at first I saw only shapes. Everything was dark, and I couldn’t distinguish faces. If you were about the same hight, weight and skin colour as somebody else, I couldn’t distinguish you from the other person. I really appreciated hospital staff who introduced themselves each and every time they approached my bed.

6 weeks after going into the ICU: “Explain things to mom and make sense.”

6 weeks after going into the ICU: “Realize that I said mean things to people when I was angry”.

6 weeks after going into ICU: “Laugh out loud”

7 weeks after going into ICU: “Walk to the bathroom without huffing and puffing once I got there.”

7 weeks after going into the ICU: “Make my bed. The blankets didn’t see as heavy”.

9 weeks after going into the ICU: “Walk to the school parking lot”. The school is across the street. We can hear the bell and the morning announcements in our house when our doors and windows aren’t open.

3 months after gong to the ICU: “Make a meal by myself. Cauliflower and cheese sauce”.

That’s it for now.

If you are interested in more, please let me know. I skipped things to make the list shorter, and I haven’t gone to the end.

Honestly, I want to make this blog to help ICU staff and current and future patients of the ICU. I also want to help myself get back into writing.

But… well. I don’t know if this will help. Do you want to know how quickly and slowly people get better after being in the ICU? I’m starting to get the anxiety and extreme tiredness I feel most of the time I look at my old diaries and what really happened. So this might be a short list, and a terrible blog post but it’s the best I can do at this time.

I also have diary entries of how I was emotionally feeling. I’m obviously not a robot, and I can and will decide what to put in this blog, but if you tell me what you want, I can give that to you too.

Thanks.

As always, if this is helpful to you, please share it.

Note: Like all of the posts I’m posting today, this is an old post from my old blog. It was written and posted on the anniversary of going to the hospital, even though this day right now, is not the anniversary of going to the hospital.

Today is an anniversary of going to the hospital.
And I would like to say Thank you.

To everybody who has read this blog (that includes you, who are reading these words right now :)), thank you.

To everybody who has liked, retweeted, tweeted or quote tweeted any of my blogposts, thank you.

To everybody who has responded to my tweets thank you.
You give me the courage to go on. Writting this blog is emotionally difficult, and I thank you for joining me in the journey, encouraging me, and sharing it with others.

To those who work in ICU’s across the world, thank you.

I drove past a bad accident today. 3 ambulances, several police and 2 fire trucks surrounded a multi car accident. As I continued driving, 2 more fire truck and another ambulance passed me going the other way.

I thought of the people in the accident, and wondered if any of them were heading to the ICU. I thought of the crew trying to save them, and wondered if they needed the jaws of life. I thought of the hospital, and wondered if even at that time they were getting ready for some trauma cases.

And I thought of the ICU I was in and wondered if they were getting beds ready. I wondered what they would do, if the ICU was full, and more people needed to go. Surely they wouldn’t turn people away?

To those of you, who do any of those jobs, thank you. I know you aren’t thanked enough, I’ve been trying to write my own ICU staff (doctors, nurses, others), for a while now, but every time I try, I can’t.

Strange, I’ve been writing for years (ever since I was 11, almost 12), but when I try to express my gratitude, for specific things people did there, I get too emotional. I just emotionally can’t do it. It’s not that I’m not thankful, it’s that it’s so painful, it’s hard for me to discuss those memories. I’m trying in this blog, because I want to help other people, but…. It hurts, but…. I will keep trying.

When I was in the ward, after the ICU, I had a med student who couldn’t see me.

It wasn’t really all his fault. He was taught “if you hear hoof beats, look for horses, not zebras.” The problem is, a Zebra was laying in the bed in front of him, but he couldn’t see me. Through his teaching, and arrogance, he could not see what was right there in front of him, and he could not hear what I said.

I am a Zebra, and have been since I was born. I was the baby that had “failure to thrive”, the child that had so many surgeries that my parents lost count, the adult that forgets large parts of my medical history when I talk to new doctors because it’s just so long, the patient who doesn’t mention surgeries, until a doctor looks at my abdomen and says “what are these scars”, the patient whose family doctor still can’t remember or pronounce the name of the large surgery I had when I was 3, the patient whose blood levels are always wonky, and the patient who so often reacts unpredictably to medications.

I look healthy on the outside. I always have, and sometime I’ve felt healthy. On the inside… Let’s just say I always notice that moment when ultra sound technicians notice the differences in my organs. Their eyes get bigger, and they quit small talking. When I asked what’s wrong, they say they can’t tell me.

I like being unique, because being unique on the inside, allows me to be unique on the outside. It allows me to take my own path and not follow the crowd, because I can tell myself “I’m not like everybody else on the inside. Why do I have to do what everybody else does?” It gives me extra freedom.

But it also makes me invisible.

In the ICU they believed how different I was.

In the ward, after the ICU…

Try telling a med student that you need a certain type of medication that he hasn’t heard of. Try telling him that the blood tests he took may say my kidney’s are fine, but I know that they aren’t. I know that I’ve had more tests than he can imagine, that although the blood tests look good, my 24 hour urine tests, will show that I’m urinating everything out because my kidneys no longer know how to filter.

I’m sick. I crashed in the ICU just 5 days ago. It’s -45C outside, and nobody’s car is starting, making visiting me very difficult. I don’t have the verbal support of my family, but I know my kidneys aren’t doing well, because he has deprescribed a medication that is rare, but that I need, and he insists that he “knows everything there is to know about kidneys”, and my kidney’s are fine.

My body is so different, that it can’t even do kidney disease right, making me need to take medications that most people with kidney disease have to avoid in their diets. To find the medication I needed, I needed someone with a Phd in community pharmacy, to find a company that would provide it to my pharmacy. The nephrologist prescribed it, I took it to my pharmacy, and they sent me to somebody else.

I might not be a doctor, but I know my body. I know how I feel when I don’t have the medication I need. I’ve done the research, I’ve talked to the nephrologist and the Phd pharmacist, and I know what I need.

The clock might have been going backwards at the time, but I knew that wasn’t real, and I knew that I was getting weaker and sicker as the hours progressed because I hadn’t had the proper medication in 3 days. I knew the name of my nephrologist, the name of the transplant pharmacist, and the name of the community pharmacist. If these were all delirium induced hallucinations, how could I have come up with the right terms and names?

How could I have explained complicated satistics about a bell curve, and not everybody is on the bell curve, and I’m one of them? Honestly does anybody who doesn’t understand this stuff come up with it because of delirum?

But he stood at the end of my bed and said “I know everything there is to know about kidneys, you’re kidneys are fine, and I don’t have to phone your nephrologist.”

If he knew everything there was about kidneys he’d be a nephrologist. He didn’t even know how the bell curve worked. He acted like he was the doctor, I was stupid, and I should trust him in everything.

But that’s not true. First, if we were back in my number theory classes, he wouldn’t have been able to follow. He’d be the person who knew nothing.

Do not think that just because somebody doesn’t have the knowledge that you have, that you are smarter, better and infallible?

Second, he couldn’t see me, because he was taught to disregard every zebra he ever met. To him, everybody’s a horse, and if someone tells him differently, they are lying.

Third, his arrogance, didn’t allow him to even learn about zebras. He will never be able to see zebras, because he’s too arrogant to ever believe that somebody might possibly know more than him. He will never learn, because he’s not open to learning. He thinks he knows everything.

I find myself hoping that he failed medical school miserably, never made it to residency, and will never be able to hurt other patients, like he hurt me.

I finally got him to listen in 2 ways: one my mother told the nurse which pharmacist to phone to confirm my story, and two I told him if he cost me my one remaining working kidney I would sue him for everything he had and make him never become a doctor. I told him I didn’t owe him a kidney.

I got the medicine I needed the next day.

But why did it have to be such a fight?

Please, if you are a med student, resident, or doctor, never discount what your patients are saying? It’s not suppose to be an adversarial relationship, in which I have to fight for what I need, and you act as a gate keeper, to all the gold.

Why can’t it be a teem effort? Why can’t you believe me when I say I have something rare? Why can’t you see me?

Please try to see me?

If you are a med student, resident or doctor who does believe you’re patients, and works as a teem, thank you.

Never underestimate now much that is appreciated, by Zebra’s like me.

If you are a professor of med students and residents, please teach them that Zebra’s exist?

And if you are a med school curriculum designer, please take that old and horribly wrong adage out? That adage is harmful and it needs to be changed.

How about “If you hear hoof beets, look for horses. If you don’t see horses, look for Zebras.”?

I wrote this in my diary, two months after I was rushed to the hospital because of a severe allergic reaction. As I said before, I started writing in my diary as soon as I woke up from sedation because I wanted to remember the storey. I knew as I got better, I’d become more and more removed from knowing what it was like to be that sick. I wanted hospital staff and family to know what ICU patients experience. I asked for scrap paper, and started writing.

My parents later brought my diary into the hospital.
This was written two months after going to the hospital. It is disjointed, and expresses anger, but I’m keeping it mostly as it was written. If I change it, it will no longer be the view of a recently discharged ICU patient.

Note: Because, I’m not a good speller to begin with some words may be misspelled. I’m not reading it over to change it. It took me all day to gather the courage to write this blog post, and emotionally I just can’t handle rereading it to make corrections at this time.

Note #2: If you know anything about blogging, and how to print off my blog posts to review later, please get in touch to help.

Note #3: This is a very emotional blog to write and update. If these blog posts help you, or if you just like them, please encourage me by telling me you like them, liking them, and tweeting them on twitter? I need to know I’m helping others but doing this, because it will strengthen my ability to keep going.

____

Original Diary Entry, after I got out of the ICU.

What’s it like to be in the ICU?

Not very nice.

When I went into the ICU, my face, neck and body were swollen from a prescription medication.

I wasn’t breathing, and close to death.

A surgeon, placed a child’s breathing tube down my throat. He told me later it was the hardest surgery he had ever done and will never forget it.

While I was there I was totally sedated for 8 days and contracted sepsis and pneumonia.

I crashed on Christmas day and almost died. I was told I got as sick as one could get without dying.

I think of my parents watching “30 people” (my mother’s words) come into the room and the doctor climb on my chest. It must have been difficult. I thought they were trying to kill me and I heard “There’s nothing we can do to fix this. We have to kill her.”

I fought, was tied down, and continued fighting.

Both of my arms were black and purple from fighting so much, exploded veins and multiple IVs.

I had 2 tubes in my mouth, a feeding tube, a tube in my jugular vein (I still look like I was bitten by a vampire, with 3 scabs on my neck), wires taped to my chest and stomach, and a catheter.

I hallucinated about family members I don’t have, a man singing racist songs, the nurses taking piano lessons on inflatable grand pianos, a man who was looking for marbles to fix his piano, my Dad rescuing me by taking the roof off the hospital only to be end up right back were I was, being told I was there because I smoked (I’ve never smoked), and hearing my doctors and nurses talking about putting me in a medical coma because nobody liked me.

Some of them thought that wasn’t right, and some of them thought they were protecting the public and nursing staff by keeping me in a coma forever. The rights of the staff and my right not to be in a coma were discussed.

My brother came in, not wearing a shirt, and told them nobody liked me and asked them to put me in a coma.

I sent racist and horrible mean emails to the staff. My parents divorced, and both of my parents wanted nothing to do with me. The nurses took as long as they could to answer my calls. Every bath thing I did was recored, put in an envelope and sent away. Urine was put into my feeding tube.

None of this happened.

I was under total sedation, couldn’t move and had so many wires and tubes hooked up to me, I couldn’t do anything even if sedation wasn’t preventing my muscles from moving.

I must have been aware on some level I was in a hospital, but not aware enough for it to make any sense.

When I woke up, I couldn’t talk, because of the tubes. I was hallucinating because of delirium, but I didn’t know it.

I saw a coffin, nurses with 3 eyes and other things. To me these things were real. I couldn’t distinguish hallucinations from reality, and didn’t know ICU delirium was even a thing.

I couldn’t see. It was very dark (my mom says it was very bright). I could only see shapes. I saw hair colour, and style not faces. Faces were dark shapes. As that improved, people developed 3 eyes.

I hated my roommate because, he and his visitors shouted obscenities to me. My mom tells me I didn’t have a roommate. On one side was a wall. On the other side as a curtain with an empty bed behind it, yet in my mind, I knew why he was there, who his visitors were, and I heard every conversation they had.

Time had no meaning.

Everything that happened in the past was just as it was happening now. In one moment I could see my brother when we were both children and in the next moment his son would be there. I didn’t even see how that wasn’t possible.

When the tubes were pulled it hurt. It hurt to pull them out. It hurt to swallow. It hurt.

It was difficult to talk. When I asked to go to the bathroom, the nurse said “just a minute, I’ll get you a bedpan”.

I said “It’s jut over there, I can walk”.

She said “No you can’t.”

She was right. I couldn’t sit without support.

Sitting in a chair was exhausting.

When I was transferred to the ward, I saw babies crawling in the snow, an Elvis monkey impersonator sitting in my roommates chair and fireworks on the ceiling. I had entire conversations with people who weren’t there. To me they were there. I kept my roommate awake and was transferred to a private room so I wouldn’t bother anybody else.

Walking was hard but I couldn’t go home until I walked down the hall and back. It took 3 weeks.

It wasn’t until I was home that I was able to distinguish what happened from what I thought happened.

My mother very patiently explained “no there weren’t any pianos in the ICU”, and other things.

I want to got back to back to see what the ICU is really like, not what I thought it was, but it’s not a tourist destination and I don’t want to interfere with the patients now of stop the staff from doing their work.

I have been assured that ICU staff like to see their efforts were successful and their patients got better.

Emotionally, I knew almost as soon as I woke up that the ICU staff saved my life not once but twice.
These people knew nothing about me, but they worked hard to save my life the first time they met me.

But…

I heard and saw them do and say very nasty things about me. And I also felt rage.

Elisabeth Kubler Ross is right – it is possible to believe 2 contradictory things and fully believe both things.

At home I cried about lost abilities, huge gulping sobs, that kind of cry.

I love math. And I have an ability in math that both surprised and impressed my university professors. It was part of how I saw the world. At home my Dad asked me a math question I would have easily done before the ICU. I couldn’t do it. I had to look up how to do it, and I couldn’t understand the explanation of how to do it. I felt like apart of me was taken away.

I like to write. I’ve written 3 unpublished novels and started a fourth. Writting even a sentence tired me out.

Physically, going to the bathroom tired me out so much that I had to sit and rest. By the time I got there I was hyperventilating and my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it by touching my chest (so could my mom).

A specialist doctor I’ve know for at least 20 years said my personality had changed. I went on rants about the slightest thing. I wasn’t very nice on twitter and then went back an deleted all my nasty tweets.

I didn’t care if I hurt people’s feelings and said “I don’t care. You’re an adult. Deal with it.” when I realized I did hurt their feelings.

These are things I never would have done before. I was known for apologizing too often.

It’s now been six weeks (note: I think I counted wrong when I wrote this, but because I wrote 6 weeks in my diary – I decided to keep it in) since i got out of the hospital. I still get angry but direct it as inanimate objects or people who aren’t in the room. That way I’m releasing my anger but I’m not hurting anyone.

I am told that I will get my math and thinking abilities back and eventually I’ll be able to stand for more than 5 minutes without huffing and puffing.

Knowing I have almost died is weird. There has to be a reason I am alive. There has to be some good that comes out of this. But what?

I want to make changes in after the ICU care.

I don’t want med students to see critically ill patients without supervision. They are too sick and people don’t break. They die.

I am still suffering from the changes the med student made to my prescriptions before I came home. I have kidney disease. I took 17 different kinds of medication before this happened. The ICU staff decided on my medication before I left the ICU. A med student in the ward changed it. Even as I argued with him about my need for medications I know how easy it was for him to override me. Sometimes I would agree only because I wanted him to leave so I could go to sleep. He tired me out.

I asked multiple times for him to phone my nephrologist. He refused. He may have over estimated his knowledge but I knew he didn’t know everything. That’s why he’s not a nephrologist. If med student know everything specialists knew specialists would be needed. Did all those doctors with 13 or 14 years of education waste their time and money?

He said 24 urine samples weren’t needed. Than why do I go through the inconvenience of collecting my urine, keeping it in the fridge and trying to find a parking spot at the busiest hospital in the city every 6 months?

He response “why? You can tell kidney function with a blood test?”

My response “I don’t know why I’m not a nephrologist.”

He left.

His medication changes made sleeping very difficult. When I first got him I didn’t sleep for more than 50 minutes at a time. I know. I timed my sleep with my iPhone.

A few days later my mom and I searched the house and found bottled os old medication (months old) and used that.

I’m too sick to drive to the doctor and my mom doesn’t drive.

Ironically I’ll have to wait until I’m healthy to go to my family doctor.

My mom phoned and explained the situation. The doctor phoned me and we had an appointment over the phone. He phoned the pharmacy, my brother picked it up and drove it out to me. An now my medications were fixed.
But how much healthier could I be now, if the med student wasn’t allowed to treat someone who crashed just 5 days before?

He should have had supervision.

Another change I’d like to see is an After the ICU ward. All patients from the ICU who are too healthy to stay int he ICU but too sick to go home could go to the same ward, give each other emotional support, and be treated by doctors that only treat critically ill patients.

I was placed in the cardiac care ward, and rare enough that I got a constant stream of visitors.

“Hi, I’m not your doctor, but I heard you were here and I’d like to talk to you. Is that Ok?”

Yes. I’d like to help you treat those that come after me as long as you don’t harm me. But at least one person there should know how to treat me.

Apparently the last person in that hospital with the same collection of symptoms I had was seen 25 years ago.
I’m not a teaching tool. (Note – I didn’t include this in my diary entry – but I am a Zebra and have been since I was born).

I don’t just break. I can die and almost did twice.
I didn’t belong in a ward with body who knew how to treat me. I new they didn’t read my whole file, because it was huge and they wouldn’t have had the time.

I’d also like the emotional needs of post ICU patients to be addressed. I spent most of an afternoon crying and a social worker was called. She wanted me to be treated by a psychiatrist in the hospital, bt the med student refused. He cam in shortly after she left and said “you don’t need a psychiatrist, do you “, and left.

I spent 3 more weeks in the hospital. I didn’t see a physchiatrist in that time.

One of my nurses told me she thought the med student was wrong about a lot of things but she had to carry out all of his orders and couldn’t say anything or she would be reprimanded.

What a stupid system. She went to university and has more experience that he did.

I’d like to make things different for those who come after me, but making these changes in the hospital, but I don’t know how.

Maybe this is exposure therapy? I’ve been actively avoiding many parts of my ICU experience for months now. (almost 18 months to be exact).

Before I even left the hospital’s general ward, I noticed that the nurses were writing things in a huge blue binder. I asked if I could read it. I was told “no”.

I couldn’t walk very well, I was in a hospital gown, swaying in front of the nurses station, trying to get something, anything for my tremendously sore thought, and the nurse wrote something down in that blue binder before giving me a cough candy.

A cough candy? A tube had been shoved down my swollen allergic throat with force because my airway was completely blocked off, with such force, that I was sure they had used an electric drill to make me a new airway, and all they could offer me for my sore throat was a cough candy? And even then the nurse had to write that down, like she was giving me money for a bank loan. It seemed a bit excessive.

I asked what he was writing down, and he said “no”.
“But that’s not fair. It’s about me.” I stated.
He replied “you have to sign a form.”
That seemed simple enough, but when I asked for the form he denied that too.

I took the cough candy and went back to my room. He may have thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. I was determined to know what they were writing about me.
I had no memory of going to the hospital. I didn’t remember that morning when I woke up with a swollen tongue and blocked airway, the ambulance ride or arriving at the hospital completely out cold.

I remembered somebody trying to take my shirt off, being unable to undo the knots that tied it in the back and then saying “never mind we’ll cut it off”. And I remember being relieved, but then later on wondering why they were taking my clothes off.

But…. At that moment when I stood at the nurses desk, swaying back and forth because I didn’t have the balance to stand still, I honestly didn’t remember much, and I wanted desperately to know why I was in the ICU and then later in the ward. I had no idea.

At that point, the clock in my room was still turning backwards, had all sevens and occasionally floated right off the wall.

Here everything was written down in a humongous blue binder, and they wouldn’t let me read it. I don’t even think they would have let me touch it, if I had reached over and tried to do so.

It seemed terribly unfair, but I took the cough candy (the only relieve for my desperately sore throat), and left.
I returned to ask for that file every day. Each time the answer was “no”.

When I was out of the hospital, I asked my doctor how to get the hospital file. He told me how, I downloaded the form, and sent my mother back to the hospital with $20.00 to get the file for me. I have it now, in a huge binder of my own, but I have never read it.

I’ve tried several times, but each time I look at it I burst into tears. I’ve held it, looked at it, cried over it, opened it, and flipped through the pages, but that is as far as I got.

My allergist wants to read it, and I’ve committed to photocopying it, and giving it to him, but I can’t do that either. It just brings up so much fear, hurt and pain when ever I try to do anything with it.

Because I went into the ICU because of a severe allergic reaction, he wants to know exactly what happened. It’s been 2 months since I said I would get it to him, but I just can’t bring myself to photo copy it. Who knew that a binder full of pages could bring so many tears out of one person? I didn’t.

The story of what really happened is in those pages. And I know the story of what happened to me. It didn’t happen. It was all delirium, but it happened to me. To me it was as real as the computer I’m typing this post on, and the desk that it sits on.

But…

So I guess in a way, writing this blog is exposure therapy, because I will eventually tell the story that I can’t bring myself to look at in any way.

Why am I doing this? To help others. To help myself.
Why am I not just writing it in book form or in my diary? I’ve tried. It hasn’t been successful.

Will a blog be any more successful? Well it will prompt me to write more often, and hopefully the encouragement I get from other people (in tweets and comments) will off set the negative emotions I’m feeling even right now.

I sit here will a swollen, and itchy eye, due to contact dermatitis, and conjunctivitis. The eye drops and eye lid cream isn’t working. It’s getting worse. I know I have to photocopy that file and give it to my allergist, if I’m to get better because allergist is afraid to continue the allergy shots until he reads the file. Maybe after writing this blog for a while, I’ll be able to photocopy the file without crying all over the papers, and the photocopy machine.

I hope so.

So why am I doing this? For me. For you. For the ICU patients that come after me.

Welcome to Christmas in ICU. It’s called that because I was in the ICU one Christmas, and although it was more than a year ago, I am still recovering.

I am a writer. I have been a writer since I was 11 years old (almost 12) and my grandfather died. My teacher suggested I write a diary of my feelings, and I’ve kept a diary every since.

As soon as I awoke from sedation in the ICU I knew that I wanted to write about my experience, because I knew I was the only one who knew what it was like for me. There were times I couldn’t decided if I was dead or alive. An man who obviously wasn’t real tormented me the entire time. I knew that being under sedation, crashing and almost dying twice was something many people didn’t know about, and I wanted to tell them, because I wanted to help all those who were still under sedation, and were not understood.

I started writing in my diary within days of waking up, but I couldn’t start the book I wanted to write from it. Although I’ve written several other books (although I’ve only written 3 query letters and all of them were rejected), countless short stories, several essays, and a diary kept since I was 11 years old (almost 12), I haven’t been able to write about my own experience in the ICU with the depth I would like to.

Emotionally I can’t sit down and write it in chronicolgical order. Not yet anyway. I’ve written parts of it on my twitter account, and several more parts in my diary, but some of the really bad things, I just can’t bring myself to write.
I haven’t written fiction since I got sick either. I’ve tried, but I feel like I can’t.

This blog is meant to be a first step into writing again, and getting at least part of my life back to what it was.
It will most likely be rebuttals and essays about tweets (sometimes the 280 character limit is just too constricting), things I remember, and things I want other people to know about being a patient in the ICU.

If you’ve read this far, thank you, and I hope you join me in this emotional (for me) journey into writing (reading for you), into life in and after the ICU.
Thank you.

Note: Because this blog has been transferred from another blog hosting site, many posts will be posted today. All but one will be posts from the other site.

As I tweeted a few days ago, my new iPad Pro was finally delivered.

I haven’t posted anything new in many weeks, because my old iPad started indiscriminately shutting down for no reason, and my computer, which I have made limb along in the in the last several years (I got in in 2011), finally decided to quit working satisfactorily.

It just sort of gets to the point where it works, too long, and then quits following my commands. It will write words like wwwwwaaaassss, and then delete the entire line (including other words), when I ask it to delete.

Needless to say, writing anything became painful and slow.

So I ordered a new iPad Pro, but it took forever to get here.

And then….

Unfortunately, the old site, wix didn’t have an app comparable with the iPad Pro.

And that is why, this is my new blog site.

I will try to get the old posts migrated to this wordpress.

And I will continue my ICU Story, in new blog posts soon… Just as soon as I get the hang of wordpress.

Let me know in the comments or twitter, is this blog hosting site is better than the old one. Is it easier or harder, for you as the reader to read and navigate. I want to know, because this blog is for you, the reader, and I want you to have a comfortable reading experience.