Home Again, Home Again, Thank God I'm Home Again

(With apologies to Martin Luther King, Jr.)

Got home about noon today, thanks to dedicated efforts of Colin, Jordan and Kegan (a nurse asked if my boy-boy grandson with long hair was my granddaughter). In a way, it seems like I’ve never been away, but in most ways I feel that I’ve been on a long journey. It will take me a while to process the emotional and spiritual effects of that journey. The physical effects I know—lots of limitations. And I have a lot of therapy to do to regain strength. Would rather not regain the 20 lbs. I lost on this journey.

Meantime, not much has changed. I spent the afternoon at my desk, sorting accumulated mail, etc., and had a long nap. Grateful for my sleep numbers bed that raises and lowers head and feet, just like a hospital bed. We’ve had had my favorite foods—lox and cream cheese for lunch, Railhead BBQ for supper. Jordan did a grocery run for me, and I’m looking forward to yogurt, LeCroix, all kinds of things I haven’t had in a while.

Sophie seems glad to have me home and pays more attention to me than she did at Garden Terrace. She likes having all the people in the cottage.

Yesterday Brandon took three young boys to the stock show and, feeding them, spent $100 in less than two hours. Today was Christian’s turn for boy excursions—he took Kegan and Jacob to Flight Deck. Not quite as expensive but not cheap either.

A study in contrasts, not just blonde and dark, but these cousins are so different in style--the long-haired soccer kid, and the all-around preppy boy. Yet they love each other. Pictures tell all.

No wise comments from this corner on the political situation or anything else. I’m sleepy and ready for bed and a book at eight o’clock. Can’t get past the feeling that today is Sunday. We all feel that way, and the kids will be lucky if we don’t send them to school tomorrow.

I plan to rejoin the world tomorrow-no more spending the day in my pjs with dirty hair.

A little bit of lightness for troubled times

Before the presidential campaign kicked into full swing, I was a die-hard Facebook fan. (These days, life can be divided into before the election and after—anyone got the appropriate initials in mind?) I confess I spent way too much time scrolling carefully through Facebook. Unlike the many who have given it up because of the hate, I still go to the page—but I browse, leap, skip, pick and choose. It’s not just the hate, though that bothers me—I am tired to death of being pestered to sign a thousand and one petitions most of which will do nothing.

I decided between troubled times and my rehab incarceration I needed a light diversion and discovered Jenn McKinlay’s Hat Shop Mysteries. I read the third, Assault and Beret, first. Two cousins who co-own a hat shop in London, are at the center of these stories. Viv is the creative, talented hat maker and the will o’ the wisp unpredictable personality. In this novel, she has married someone in Paris without telling anyone and left him two days after the wedding because he was too perfect, there was no clash. A year or two later, she and her cousin, Scarlett, are to go to Paris where Viv will teach a class, and she orders Scarlett to find the missing husband so she can have the marriage annulled. Improbable, yes. But you must call on willing suspension of disbelief. Scarlett tells the tale, and her voice--brilliantly ironic and clever—carries the story. It’s a mystery, and there’s the requisite suspense but Viv, Scarlett and the missing husband are the meat of the book. I enjoyed it thoroughly. So now I’m into Cloche and Dagger, first in the series. If you want some light diversion, I recommend these books.

I had delightful visitors tonight. Thanks to Jordan for bringing Jacob and Sophie to see me. I must get home before Sophie thinks she totally belongs to Jordan. She is always a bit ill at ease here and barks, which worries Jord. But these two are so cute!

Oatmeal and blood pressure--a double whammy

Jordan labeled this "Going to see my mom"

Have you ever tried eating cold oatmeal with a blood pressure cuff on your arm? That’s pretty much how my morning went. An aide came to move me out of my room because they were fixing the heat in it—I protested I would stay, did yesterday. Attila the Hun went on about my safety and so on. I finally convinced her I wasn’t going anyplace before I used the bathroom—plumbing promptly backed up.

Being wheeled, pjs and all, into dining room brought back meals with my mom at the nursing home. Three men and a woman, all with bored expressions, sat staring into space. We waited. Then a good-looking man with white hair was wheeled in, and he boomed “Oh, my Lord, we’re having eggs again!” I wanted to howl. We waited some more. I had ordered dry cereal; I got oatmeal and a fried egg solid as a rock. I have learned to “relish” oatmeal with sugar and butter.

Someone from OT came to assess the woman next to me who arrived late last night—right there in the dining room with the rest of us sitting around. Privacy and modesty have flown. Efforts at conversation were useless (I would have liked to talk to that one man).  Mostly my fault—I hadn’t had time to grab my hearing aid. Gradually aides came and wheeled everyone else away—I was stranded in the dining room without a call button—had my cell phone so I could at least read. The occupational therapist rescued me.

PT and OT are interesting and not as boring as I expected. My shoulders are sore from pushing up on the walker plus work on pulleys yesterday, so I got a lovely massage today. I can see that both therapies are useful, more than just walking, and I’m learning new things, like what’s going on with muscles and nerves in my swollen leg. The physical therapist talks to me about the physiology of exercise and what’s going on in my body; the occupational therapist talked to me about food while I spent 15 minutes pretending to do the arm part of a bicycle. Turns out he also likes to cook. He’s from the Philippines, so we talked a lot about raw fish.

The food is almost traditional 1950s—mushy vegetables, potatoes gratin that were obviously not made from scratch. Apparently most residents want their hair back-combed a la the ‘50s The salon lady was astounded and then apologetic when I wanted shampoo only. A bit of a time warp that suits many patients.

In spite of my strong fight to avoid rehab, I’m almost glad I’m here. I can see definite benefits I would not get with home health care. The people here are friendly, anxious to make the patient comfortable. I find I’m learning both the people and the ways of the institution, such as when to call for help—way before your bathroom trip is urgent.

And speaking of dogs, we have a new one in the family—Buddy is an 8-week old German Shepherd with impressive German breeding. No, he’s not mine (thank goodness). He belongs to my brother and sister-in-law. John told me the most important thing he can do right now is bond with the puppy. I have a feeling they both spend a lot of time just like this picture.

My Busy Social Life

Life in the rehab facility keeps me so busy I haven’t had time to think about a blog. My phone has rung more than once, and I had two visitors which made up for the fact that Jordan caught a “but” and couldn’t come.

I have been a spoiled baby about being here. I want to be home. I have family, friends, my dog, and my wonderful new cottage to enjoy. When I talked to any one of my children, tears were close to the surface and though I tried to hide it, I was one big lump of self-pity. They knew, and all I managed to accomplish was to make them feel guilty for something that was beyond their control.

I had a friend who used to exclaim, “I had an epiphany today!” We laughed and said life for her was one big epiphany—but tonight I share that feeling. My mother was in two nursing homes and died in the second. It was a difficult period for all of us, and Mom was by then not quite lucid—so she wasn’t always easy on our guilt. Today I realized that being here has plummeted me right back to those difficult years.

My Megan stressed tonight that they have all tried to tell me that mine is a totally different situation and rationally I know that. But those subconscious thoughts and memories are there. And I’m dealing with them.

I also owe my surgeon and family doctor an apology. The therapy I am getting here is far superior to what I would have gotten if I’d gone straight home. I’m highly impressed by the knowledge and practice of both the physical and the occupational therapist. They move me in ways I didn’t know I could move or never thought I’d move again, and they find aches I didn’t know I had. I’m gaining self-confidence by leaps and bounds (I know, pride goeth before, etc etc.) My room is comfortable but far from posh; the food is not that great, but the people are kind and caring—and gentle, which is important at this point. I hope not to be in this facility for long, but I will be a good camper while I am.

Going to the dogs

This is the blog I wrote tree days ago before computer problems . I'll update later.

When the possibility of hip surgery first loomed on my horizon, I was adamant: I was coming home from the hospital. No detour to rehab. No sir t’s just a question of lying around waiting your turn for fifteen minutes of attention, if that much. I repeated all the negatives I had heard.

My dog, Sophie…how to describe Soph? She’s a Bordoodle (deliberate mix of border collie (the bitch) and miniature poodle (the sire). She’s 30 lbs., charcoal grey tipped with silver, big brown eyes that invite you to the depth of her soul. And yes—energy and mischief galore. At five she should be a middle-aged matron but she hasn’t gotten the message. At the same time, she is one of the most affectionate dogs I’ve ever owned.

Sophie has also gotten protective of me. When I visit at Colin’s house, she rarely leaves my side; at home , if an aide comes to help me during the night, Sophie comes too. Until she got used to the wheelchair, she pitched a fit every time someone go it out because she knew it meant I was going somewhere. I think now she finally understands I will always come back for her, but I don’t want to be gone so long she forgets.

What, you may wonder, does the dog have to do with rehab? A whole lot. I am one of those foolish old ladies who sees her dog as almost as dear as my children and grandchildren—she is family, and I’m all she has. I didn’t want her to be lonely—or truth be told to transfer her affections elsewhere. Christian is taking good care of her, and she sleeps with him and their dogs in the main house. But still….

My surgeon and personal physician did not either one say I had to go to rehab; they did say I would get much better much more quickly if I did. My family doctor, Dr. Richwine, is a medical director at the rehab facility we’re looking at and I know he’s a dog person. So, I jokingly asked if I could take my dog. When he immediately said, “Absolutely,” it was a done deal. I cannot—and would not—keep here there but she can visit. My daughters went to the facility and said there were dogs all over, and there are enclosed courtyards where they can run and play.

So I am going to rehab today or tomorrow, probably at Stone Gate. But I have to be home by the first weekend in February—when all the kids and grandkids will be in town for rodeo. Gives me a good goal.

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