I came home.
I was going bonkers at the rehab with nothing to do. I couldn't hear the TV well enough, and unbelievably the closed caption words spun faster than I could follow. Art brought me "good books" but they demanded attention and I wasn't interested in focusing. His stack of New Yorker magazines worked best. The articles were the right length for a small bite at a time. I found myself sleeping nearly all day in my wheelchair and especially in the over-stuffed armchair, waking for meals. I did a lot of staring at the ceiling.
"Hey," I thought, "I can do this at home." And, at the house, I could have physical therapy and occupational therapy to make the right arm and right leg more functional.
So here I am either in the wheelchair or wobbly on the walker, or in an armchair. However I need someone guarding me as I walk up and down the stairs which still feels like an Olympic Event. I am not sleeping during the day. Oh, dozing off a bit. Art gets little attention from his archivist, Erica, who is busily at my beck and call, as basic as putting my meals on the table. When Erica's not here, Art is my hand-maiden. He just hooked up my bra.
I hate not being independent. Only now do I understand the sorry plight of the handicapped. And I am relatively healthy. Just some broken bones. As someone unkindly reminded me, "You don't heal as fast when you're an older person." Well, thanks a lot.
Anyway, it is great to be home.