please help me.

It has been a Carnival of Pestilence here at Rancho FirstNations. Bacteria roam freely, breeding in uncontrolled wads. Virii are forming herds of brackish evil. The trail of pain is written in effluvia, phlegm and befouled towelling.
Yes, I am sick again, yes, I have bronchitis again; or rather, I still have bronchitis, and it is resisting all antibiotics. Next week I will be rippin down the Cephalexin, most likely, and that means I'll be blogging between frantic sprints to the toilet and frantic trips to the quickiemart to buy Ritz Crackers to forestall frantic trips to the toilet. Because Cephalexin and my lower intestinal tract are not the best of friends, friends.
Meanwhile....
Yesterday I juggled Germans.
In this corner at upwards of seventy the Playboy of the Western World, his walker and his overly complicated, day-long series of nuclear cardiac assesments!
...And in this corner, weighing in at none of your business, The Yummy Biker and his amazing Blooping Bellybutton! Bloop, purple! Bloop, not purple! Bloop, outie! Lookit! Bloop, innie! Are you looking? Look!
Both of them were scheduled for their procedures
ON THE SAME GODDAMN DAY.
And I was barely able to walk without pausing to huff and blow and drool and pant and watch the pretty fireworks go off around the sides of my field of vision and try not to pass out.
YAY!
Guess who had to drive?
First up, the Playboy. We pull up in front of his residence and there's a fire engine and an ambulance out front and a gurney in the lobby, which was full of interested wrinkly observers. No, it wasn't the Playboy's turn, but I didn't know that before I took a sprint into the place and almost passed out in front of the receptionists desk and rolled down the stairs. It was like a goddamn wedding reception and how we managed to get the Playboy out of there I'll never know...A tiny little old lady with blue lips was the star of the show and she was doing the Rose Festival float wave as they loaded her onto the gurney, everyone was chatting and re-establishing old acquaintance with the firemen and the emt's, people from different floors and dinner schedules who hadn't seen each other for a few hours were catching up, and the Playboy in the middle of it all announcing to everyone at random 'I have to get a Nuclear Assesment!' and receiving the admiring congratulations of everyone in earshot.' Wow! I've never heard of that before! A nuclear assessment! '
We bundled him into our tiny car, folded the walker into the tiny trunk, bungeed it shut and headed off to the lab, which was running late. OF COURSE.
Left him there with some magazines.
Took the Biker to his appointment...oh no, wait, I mean, the Biker DROVE and I PASSENGED BECAUSE AS LONG AS THERE IS A BREATH OF LIFE IN THE MAN HE HAS TO DRIVE. I AM INCAPABLE OF DRIVING AT AN ACCEPTABLE LEVEL OF SKILL TO SUIT HIM. Of course you have to realize that JUNIOR MOTHERFUCKING JOHNSON , MARIO ANDRETTI, AND SHIRLEY 'CHA CHA' MULDOWNEY WOULD BE INCAPABLE OF DRIVING AT THIS LEVEL OF SKILL.
We got there and made arrangements to meet at noon, assuming (naiively) that since his procedure was scheduled for five minutes hence, that it would be over and he'd be all straightened up from the anaesthetic.
I was NOT looking forward to this part of our program. The man reacts very badly indeed to general and becomes combative and loud. That kind of behavior from a sober person his size is frightening, but coming from a disoriented man who is both incoherent and unable to walk a straight line who I am married to i's hilarious, because I am kind of a bitch like that. I mean fall on the floor hysterical, too...but god help you if you laugh. Because THAT, he'll remember. He won't remember asking you at the top of his lungs to 'Ma fa gub wha voobuh nuh gub" in the lobby and he won't remember trying to enter the car by the drivers side door and then denying loudly and publically and repeatedly and semicoherently that he had any thought whatsoever about driving as he attempts to sidle past you and sit behind the wheel... oh, but he will remember that when he tried to put a chew in, and he missed and poked himself in the side of the face, you laughed. Yes. That, he will remember, and you'll never hear the end of how you ridiculed him while he was helpless.
Marry a German. Do it now. I'll wait.
Drive back across town to the Playboy, who is finished with his first procedure. Since he hasn't eaten since 6pm the previous day we go out for lunch at the olde englishe halfe timberede lesbian bar. Outside, we were greeted by a wino who was scavenging cigarette butts off the pavement. He followed us inside and began loudly trying to bum a pancake off the bartender. ( Hey! I want a pancake! How mush I got fo a pancake! Gimme one! Gib me a pancake!) While the company was iffy, the food and service remained excellent and we had fun people watching and cracking each other up with outrageous observations.
Then back we go to the same clinic for his second procedure, which is running late, of course. We kill time reading magazines and criticising all the recipes.
Then I have to leave him cooling his heels while I go back to get my Biker out of pawn.
It is noon.
The Biker has only JUST GONE IN FOR HIS PROCEDURE.
Please come back in 45 minutes, he'll be all done by then, I am assured. Oh, he'll be completely out of the anaesthesia too, I am promised.
Yeah. Right. Ok.
Back across town to get the playboy.
The Playboy has ONLY JUST GONE IN FOR HIS PROCEDURE. Come back in an hour. he should be done by then.
Back across town to the Biker.
By now I am nervous as a stripper in a room full of lacrosse players. I am expecting to have to drag him out of the office with him three sheets to the wind, trying to steal all the candies off the receptionists desk and slurring 'Wheres my chew? Go get me some chew! I forgot my chew! They took my chew! Go look for my....' you get the picture.
I go back.
He's done.
You want to come on back and we'll give you all his post-op instructions?
No.
They make me.
And he's fine.
Apparently once they FINALLY got around to making the 1/2 inch incision and taking the three tiny little stitches, they only used a twilight anaesthetic and lots of local. He's lucid. He is ambulatory.
And he wants to drive.
I do not let him drive.
He wants to eat. In a restaurant.
I make him sit in the passengers seat and watch me order him a small shake from a drive-thru. All the while he is clutching the grabhandle as though AT ANY MOMENT I will floor the gas and drive off uncontrollably into oncoming traffic and hit a fuel tanker and explode and roll in a ball of flames into a grade school full of crippled orphans and DIEDIEDIEDIEDIE... yeah. By the time we are partway down the road the fabric around this handle is beginning to tear from him grabbing it like a spazmodeus every time I slow down for a corner.
Grab the first German you see and marry him. Really. You'll thank me.
Baaaaaack across town to the Playboy.
The playboy is still cooling his heels. While I am commiserating, the biker roams off while I'm not looking. When I get up to look for him, I come back and the Playboy is gone as well.
Where is my father in law? Oh, they took him back for the stress test a minute ago. He'll be right out.
I decide to stay in one place. I figure that will make me easier to find, in case either one of them is so inclined. I am also experiencing the coming attractions of an asthma attack, so I take a couple big woofs off my inhaler and wonder whether or not passing out and being hospitalized might not be the better option at this point.
The Playboy returns.
He looks like he has seen a ghost.
He is walking very, very slowly.
You can see the white all the way around his eyes.
He died again.
When they injected him for the stress test.
While all this is being explained to me, the Playboy and I both sit down, wheezing and gasping and holding our chests and shaking our heads.
The biker returns and everything is explained all over again.
The procedure is rescheduled.
We leave.
The Biker wants to drive.
No. I realize that is been almost an hour and a half now since you had abdominal surgery but no, you cannot drive. I know this is both unreasonable and mean on my part. Sit in the back seat and grab the headrest every time I slow down for a corner. Ok? Ok.
All the way back to the Playboy's residence he and the Biker make plans about how they're going to go shopping together the next day.
Right. And run the Boston Marathon and conquer Everest and fight rabid republicans in a steel cage suspended over a pen of starving zombies, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Today, the biker, as predicted, is lying on my sofa watching SpongeBob Squarepants, moaning and clutching his tummy and asking me to bring him shit, refusing to take his pain medication and stumbling around like Frankenfrickenstein.
However I think I was able to convince the Playboy yesterday that the isotopes they shot him full of would make his whiz glow in the dark, and the thought of him turning the light out every time to check the contents of the bowl is the only thing that sustains me.
That's all I have left.
Pray for me.