|Jacob in the wheelchair a friend brought today|
News on the health front is encouraging tonight. This morning I had a thorough sponge bath from a private duty care nurse. Do you know how luxurious it is to sit there, hold out your warm, and essentially say, “Here, wish it.” The nurse had recently broken her foot and had a three-month experience in a boot, so she knew where I was and what I was feeling. And I felt so good after my bath.
Jordan’s news was that tomorrow at 2:15 I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon—something I’ve been waiting for so we can find out what’s next, what’s the treatment, how long is recovery, all those good things. And she found a home health care service that takes my insurance. A lesson I’ve learned: private duty care people are not necessarily highly trained, and their services are not paid for by Medicare; home health care provides professionals, and Medicare pays the bill. I’m particularly pleased about this their services include a physical therapist when the doctor gives his okay. They also clean your house, do your laundry, really whatever you need. Five weeks after my colossal fall, we may be headed in the right direction.
Today was a lovely day and is perhaps the first day I don’t feel like rushing back to my bed. Friends have really rallied to my side—Linda, who I’ve known for over thirty years, brought lunch—delicious tuna salad. She assembled the sandwiches fresh in my kitchen, so they weren’t soggy or anything. And we had a great visit. Tonight, Amye, a friend of Jordan’s that I’m known for a long time, came for happy hour and brought lovely flowers, and Betty, my longtime dining pal, brought homemade cheeseburgers and fruit.
Saturday friends Sue and Teddy are bringing lunch, and Monday Sue is bringing
supper—it’s Jacob’s birthday and everyone will be off to Joe T.’s to celebrate.
I’m sad that I can’t go.
I think Jordan is arranging for someone to come visit every day, and I’m most grateful to her. But I’m also most grateful for the friends who care enough to visit and drink wine and chat and distract me. Some come expecting me to be transformed into a little old bent-over lady and are pleasantly surprised. I am who I’ve always been, and my ankle doesn’t hurt more because of the diagnosis Monday. Yes, my disposition and outlook took a hit, but they’re back to normal, and I’m as happy a camper as I can be in these circumstances.
If I were isolated here in my house, I’d be really miserable. And without Jordan, I don’t think I’d have made it. The Lord is good to me.