The saddest entourage ever

I've never seen the HBO series Entourage, but I know entourages are supposed to be cool. Hip. Impressive. They're supposed to help acquire stuff, and beautify the star, and enlarge the star's importance with their very presence.

Here at The Gimp Compound it's Parts Replacement Week. Today I went to the local clinic to have my trach swapped for a newer, less ooky one and Wednesday there will be drilling of teeth. Too bad the attendants can't be sent ahead to have their teeth drilled instead of mine. I would so go for that.

Yes, I have attendants. They're my folks and the state-paid nurses I've referred to before, and though a nurse is supposed to be here 24/7 as long as the state is paying for any care of a person with a vent, they're covering about 60% of the hours this month and my weary parents are handling the rest. Anyway, there's always someone lurking about me.

In the past I've brought my parents to many doctor's appointments -- particularly the specialists because 1) we all know the drill, 2) I feel more powerful with them there, and 3) we can remember things better if we all try together. In the hospital, especially when very helpless, it was really important they were around. I focused on not letting anyone accidentally injure or kill me, and my parents worried about other details. I don't know how anyone manages all that alone.

So. I have this nurse who goes where I go, and parents who have a knack for teamwork in the doctor-patient arena with me. All four of us went to the clinic together today for the trach change. And while there is good people-watching of all kinds there, I'm sure we are something to see. If you wandered into the nearest church lutefisk dinner and picked out two reasonably limber senior citizens and a women aged 35 or older, you'd have an idea of the utter coolness of my entourage. They carry gauze and saline. They wear comfortable shoes.

My entourage. My posse. My gang. My, uh, parents and my nurse.