Titles, Inc.

Rehab. Small Steps.

Jack and I worked intensely in the Physical Therapists (PT) room. We did all the challenges I had entertained in my mind. I did have a waist belt that he held control of lightly and I walked clumsily forward and back holding the parallel bars in my adorable shoes Art had bought me. It had been suggested I try shoes with Velcro straps so I could easily slide on my shoes instead of fighting laces. I told him 8 or 8 ½ (ladies, you know how many you try on until you find a left and right that both feel good.) So Art comes back with one pair of shoes. One pair size 8 with a Velcro strap -- and the shoes were perfect. I wouldn’t have looked at them. They are high-school-precious, and no wonder -- Natalie’s girl friend recognized Art and chose this pair for us. I was so excited by them that Art bought me a back-up duplicate pair.

So, there I was in PT. I was stepping dainty when I said I want to walk up the steps and come down. We did up three stairs, turn around and come down frontward, Jack’s hand on my belt for security, but by golly, I was flying.

I phoned Art immediately so we could share the good news. I can’t walk in a straight line, but see me go up stairs!

---Florence

Rehab. New-Fangled Medicine.

I just bought myself a Concierge Doctor, also referred to as a Boutique Doctor. I intend to refer to her both ways until I determine which has the most eye-popping response.

This rather new category of doctor limits a practice to a number of patients the doctor can administer to on a personal, immediate level. A doctor you can reach and talk to. How novel is that!

My Boutique Doctor started as a licensed physical therapist. When her M.D. dad died, she knew she was intensely interested in medicine and at age 30 went to medical school. She joined a medical group and then chose to open her own practice working in this more intimate relationship.

But what I love about her best of all -- she used to dance with the Joffrey Ballet in New York.

---Florence

Rehab. Wheel Chair Gymnastics.

Is it possible to be that unobservant? I’d say yes, because it was days before I realized I was the only one travelling down the corridor walking the wheel chair with my legs extended, pulling left foot right foot or rather left heel right heel, which makes the upper thighs ache, but which I kept assuring myself was a good workout.

Then I noticed everybody was rolling their wheelchairs by the large side wheels with their hands. Oh. That’s the way you navigate the chair. I was the only one walking the chair.

Wait a minute. Where are the footrests on this chair? There aren’t any. My feet are flat on the floor. No wonder I’m pulling.

However, even my visiting grandchildren took the chair for a spin instinctively using hands on the large wheels.

I persuaded myself since my goal is to walk or even just stand up without holding on that using my legs to propel myself forward is the exact physical therapy I need even though I came upon it by sheer ignorance, or even stupidity.

---Florence

Rehab. A Date is Not a Date.

Art brought me a large bag of prunes (yes, you know why) and a large bag of Medjool dates, yum. I ate the prunes dutifully (tee-hee that’s a pun) (didn’t work, maybe it’s also a myth) but I gobbled up the dates. The best dates I ever ate.

When I got close to bottom, I asked for more. Art couldn’t remember where he bought them and bought another bag at our local Whole Foods. The brand was their cheap “365” which are very pedestrian indeed.

At Art’s suggestion I saved the good bag to identify the brand and he phoned the local supermarket only to find out it was a Passover holiday specialty, now all sold out.

Art made it his mission. A produce man told him they carried it at this large market in Skokie (about 35 minutes away) and Art pulled up in front of this large closed store. “Closed on Tuesday?” I asked. “No closed forever.” Now I’m a little embarrassed.

Art says “I’m going to find them.” It’s more than a mission, it’s a quest.

Art phones me, excited. He found them at a city market. The manager said he had a dozen left over and he would put them aside. “In the city?” I ask dubiously. “all the way in Chicago?” Dan Blue will pick them up and bring them out. He’ll buy all dozen of them.

Art shows up the next day. It was raining buckets and Dan Blue’s truck made it about halfway. He phoned Art because his truck’s wipers were stuck and he didn’t want to drive further in the blinding downpour. When they rendezvoused, Dan’s wipers were working again which was no surprise because Dan is a great mechanic. Yes, he got them working—he hit them with a hammer.

They made the transference of dates. Dan said the manager was not there and the clerk could find no bag with his name on it and they always have dates anyway. Dan didn’t like the turn of events and bought only two bags. So Dan makes the “drop.”

Art now reaches into the bag and it was his Tahh Dahh moment as he triumphantly holds up his second rate Whole Foods store brand, “365.” I reach over to my bedside table, hold up the identical bag and scream “Feh!!!”

But wait, there’s more to this sad saga. I thought it was finished, but I woke up from a hard nap the next day to find a sealed carton on my chair. The nurse sliced it open and there was a mound of bags of dates. The picture on the bags was right, but it said Pitted Deglate Dates. I was struck by a wave of nausea. I was hoping it was the dreaded nausea from the chemotherapy treatment and asked for a pill, but I suspect it was the sight of all these bags.

Art phoned happily “Did you see them?”

“Wrong dates” I whispered. “Not Medjool.” He came and whisked them away.

The next day he came in, one bag in each hand: Yes, yes, the Medjool dates (see photo). Did I not tell you? There must be words beyond persistent, tenacious, never say never.

So it was with great self control that I didn’t squeal in horror as Art slashed the bag open into a wide yawning gap well below its airtight zipper seal.

Nobody’s perfect.

---Florence

Rehab. Sitting in the Rain.

When I had my visit with the oncologist, the rehab facility called the medi-van for transportation.  My wheelchair was pushed to the waiting van outside.  I’m sitting in the drizzle waiting while the driver gets out, comes around to the back, and lowers the hydraulic mount for the chair.  I snarled: “You knew I was coming out.  You should have been ready to slide the chair on instead of me waiting in the rain.”  I hate stupidity. Am I turning into a cranky witch?

---Florence

Rehab. Eat Anything.

How to accommodate your perceptions to adjust to real life.

I have been on a self-imposed cholesterol-free life for a couple of years when the prescribed pills gave me a belly ache.  So no eggs, milk, cheese, ice cream or my favorite fried liver and onions.

Dr. Gidron said eat everything now.  I protested “I want to give you the healthiest body to work with.”  “You did.”

So now when I see eggs on the tray, I think protein.  Cheese, protein.  Milk, protein.  I still can’t eat it though.  It still registers as yuch.  I would eat ice cream though.

I phoned Art.  He brought in chocolate ice cream.  Yum.

Maybe not.  Terrible belly ache (or speaking clinically – diarrhea.)

---Florence

Rehab. Anybody Home?

People sit in wheelchairs parked in the hallways; they roll themselves slowly in the chairs; they slowly push their walkers.

Today on our brisk walk to the elevator and down to physical therapy, I tell the nurse to stop my wheelchair.  Approaching my chair, is a familiar face.

“Don’t I know you?”  I ask.  “You’ve been in my book shop in Highland Park?”  She said, “I’ve been away from Highland Park for a long time.”

Later I realized why I singled her out.  Her eyes were alive.  Everyone here is shuffling along with a blank face.

---Florence

So Far, So Good

The Good News is the news is good.

The CAT scan shows the chemotherapy is effectively doing its job. So, barring any snafus, glitches or kerfuffles -- fingers crossed -- we're on the way. And only five more chemos to go, only 15 more weeks.

Thanks for all your encouragement and support. I love you guys.

--- Florence

 

Rehab. I Love Detective Fiction.

When I left for the hospital I put a paperback in my coat pocket.  It was many, many days until I tried to read it. The paperback is too heavy to hold.

Bonnie cracks it in the middle and cuts it in two.  I try one half.  More manageable.  Can’t focus or can’t concentrate.  I slowly make my way through it.

And realized reluctantly that the Kindle might have a rightful place after all.  Larger type, no reluctant pages to turn and fold back.

My problem would be loading it with reading material.  For my entertainment I read detective fiction of all kinds, police procedurals, law and the courtroom, who-done-its.  I read fast and discard them.  Our local library sells paperbacks at their book sale 10 for $1.00 so I fill up grocery bags.  If I’ve already read it, it gets donated back anyway.  I was at a garage sale one Sunday.  There was a carton of paperback mysteries “$.10 a piece if you take away the carton.”  Done.   So I still have a reserve and would reluctantly pay $’s just for the Kindle’s convenience.  I can’t remember when I bought a paperback at retail.  And me in the book business.

---Florence

Rehab. A Chrome Bar.

The bathroom wall has a sturdy bar attached along the length.  Angling the wheelchair near the toilet gives you safe, independent access to a private activity.  The procedure is you hold the bar with one hand, pull up half of your pants, hold with the other hand and pull up the second half.

But I forgot.  So I am standing there pulling up my pants with both hands, not hanging on to the bar.  I realize I am standing, and am planted firmly so I stand tall, focus my eyes and have this glorious feeling of free standing.  Before I can say, “Eureka, I’m cured,” I start to wobble and grab for the bar.  I’m unbalanced so I shoot the other hand out but I overcorrect, banging my head into the wall.  The nurse at that moment is there to sit me in the chair and roll me back to bed.  I ask for an ice-pack so that I don’t raise a bump and get ice in Saran wrap.  I forgot the routine, 5 minutes on, 5 minutes off?  I keep it going until it stops tingling.

Now it gets complicated.  The incident gets on my record.  Art gets called that I cracked my head.  He calls Jane – Mom cracked her head. Jane calls the doctor to find out how bad it is.  Later I hear from the doctor that I fell down.

Oh yes, to make it worse – this was the second day after my chemo treatment and the second day I had not slept a wink, the sleeping pill not working.  The doctor said he was ordering a pill to knock me out for four hours but now that I bumped my head, we had to wait to make sure I had no serious injuries.

But, oh, that beautiful moment of standing up.  Normal.  There’s promise.

---Florence