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Apr. 22nd, 2016
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Apr. 22nd, 2016 01:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
headingforsomethingWatching Justin Campbell sing a cover of Ex's & Oh's rehearsing for his charity concert on the weekend #fabulousboy #qualitytime — with Winston Slater and Romeo Dalton
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Apr. 22nd, 2016 03:24 amlikefatherlikesonSo... I'm actually going to be in Australia for a week after tomorrow night. I'm going to march with my grandpa in the ANZAC Day parade in Sydney for the first time ever on Monday. This is an important day for my family, so I'm not working at all while I'm there. Don't have too much fun without me.
"I'll sleep when I'm dead."
Apr. 22nd, 2016 08:12 pmprivateinvestigationsWho: Clint Chevalier and literally anyone who wants to love him, bitch him out, treat him, give him a hug, tell him he's a dick, all of the above or anything else
What: Trying to juggle life
Where: Emergency Room, Mount Sinai
When: Friday morning
With a lot of forceful pushing and organising, Clint had managed to arrange to have Lincoln stay out of hospital and not go back after he came home. This meant hiring a nurse to be present at all times to take care of Lincoln's medical needs, and doctor visits every other day to check how Lincoln was progressing. There had been an Occupational Therapist who had come in and installed some temporary medical aids, and the dresser in their bedroom looked like a fucking pharmacy, but whatever it took. Clint also put all his work on hold so he could be home to do his husband bit with whatever wasn't on the home nurse job description.
There was a downside. Clint worried. He worried all the fucking time. If Lincoln had a bad day, he worried even more. He was constantly on-edge in case Lincoln needed to be rushed back to hospital, and he was like a cat on a fucking hot tin roof making sure Lincoln had boring-assed sick people food to eat, that his pain was okay, that he had clean sheets, and clean pyjamas. A cleaner had also been hired a couple of days a week, so at least he didn't have to think about that shit, and keeping the place spotless having a person with fucked up immunity in the place.
Clint would have done anything to help Lincoln stay out of hospital after he had been in there so long. He just never fucking meant to end up in there himself. All-in-all, he wasn't hurt bad, but he could have been. And he could have hurt someone else too. Worrying so much about Lincoln, and caring for him, Clint hadn't been sleeping well. He told Lincoln he was, but in the middle of the night, he would get up and do laundry, or other domesticated shit. When he wasn't doing that, he was lying there in the dark listening to Lincoln's deep breathing in his sleep, just to know he was actually still breathing. He was exhausted, and when he got his car to go to the store to pick up some vital groceries, he had fallen asleep at the wheel momentarily enough to slam his car into a brick wall, writing it off, and giving himself a concussion. Thank fuck for air bags.
He was now on a gurney in the ER with a massive fucking headache, awaiting sutures on a nasty cut from his cheek up to his temple. His hair was caked with congealed blood and he had a temporary bandage around his head. He asked Riley to call someone, but his head had been too fucking sore for him to think of who he should call, so he left it with the doctor. He was holding an ice pack to his head to try to stop some of the swelling, and all he was worried about was trying to remember if there was any fucking soup left in the fridge so Lincoln would have something to eat if he needed it. He felt sick and woozy. This really wasn't part of his ultimate plans. If Lincoln saw this as a sign of Clint not coping, he was going to try and get himself put back into hospital for care, and that was the last think Clint wanted. Really, all he wanted to do was fucking cry, but his ego wasn't letting him give into that.
What: Trying to juggle life
Where: Emergency Room, Mount Sinai
When: Friday morning
With a lot of forceful pushing and organising, Clint had managed to arrange to have Lincoln stay out of hospital and not go back after he came home. This meant hiring a nurse to be present at all times to take care of Lincoln's medical needs, and doctor visits every other day to check how Lincoln was progressing. There had been an Occupational Therapist who had come in and installed some temporary medical aids, and the dresser in their bedroom looked like a fucking pharmacy, but whatever it took. Clint also put all his work on hold so he could be home to do his husband bit with whatever wasn't on the home nurse job description.
There was a downside. Clint worried. He worried all the fucking time. If Lincoln had a bad day, he worried even more. He was constantly on-edge in case Lincoln needed to be rushed back to hospital, and he was like a cat on a fucking hot tin roof making sure Lincoln had boring-assed sick people food to eat, that his pain was okay, that he had clean sheets, and clean pyjamas. A cleaner had also been hired a couple of days a week, so at least he didn't have to think about that shit, and keeping the place spotless having a person with fucked up immunity in the place.
Clint would have done anything to help Lincoln stay out of hospital after he had been in there so long. He just never fucking meant to end up in there himself. All-in-all, he wasn't hurt bad, but he could have been. And he could have hurt someone else too. Worrying so much about Lincoln, and caring for him, Clint hadn't been sleeping well. He told Lincoln he was, but in the middle of the night, he would get up and do laundry, or other domesticated shit. When he wasn't doing that, he was lying there in the dark listening to Lincoln's deep breathing in his sleep, just to know he was actually still breathing. He was exhausted, and when he got his car to go to the store to pick up some vital groceries, he had fallen asleep at the wheel momentarily enough to slam his car into a brick wall, writing it off, and giving himself a concussion. Thank fuck for air bags.
He was now on a gurney in the ER with a massive fucking headache, awaiting sutures on a nasty cut from his cheek up to his temple. His hair was caked with congealed blood and he had a temporary bandage around his head. He asked Riley to call someone, but his head had been too fucking sore for him to think of who he should call, so he left it with the doctor. He was holding an ice pack to his head to try to stop some of the swelling, and all he was worried about was trying to remember if there was any fucking soup left in the fridge so Lincoln would have something to eat if he needed it. He felt sick and woozy. This really wasn't part of his ultimate plans. If Lincoln saw this as a sign of Clint not coping, he was going to try and get himself put back into hospital for care, and that was the last think Clint wanted. Really, all he wanted to do was fucking cry, but his ego wasn't letting him give into that.
