Titles, Inc.

Ms. Manners

I’m in the physical therapy room and doing knee lifts, two, three, four. My left knee says “nothing to this,” my right knee says “are you kidding?” I hear a bellowing noise ringing through the whole room and I ask my therapist, “what’s that?” He said, “a patient.” I say, “what’s it about?” He said, “he’s in pain.” “Oh,” I say.

Soon his wheel chair is rolled to a position opposite me. His wife following has seated herself next to him. Two very skinny nurses are urging him to get up from his seat and while they help him he’s howling: “You’re dropping me. I can’t. I won’t. Leave me alone.” He is really a big fella, I’d say late 50’s, with an enormous face with an enormous voice coming out of that face. The nurses are murmuring, “we’ve got you, you’re safe, we’ve got you, you won’t fall” and he’s overruling and overriding it with his bellows of “you’re hurting me.” His wife put out a little finger to smooth his pajama bottom and he howls: “Don’t you fucking touch me. Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

I was so enraged at his abuse to his cowed wife that I heard my voice bellowing out at him: “You  shutup. You cut that out. Don’t you talk like that. I’m in this room with you and I don’t have to listen to it.” We both stare at each other. Nobody more surprised than myself and I drop my eyes to my knee, two, three, four. It’s not the cussing that was offensive. It was his meanness to his wife.

The man was a F - - - ing bully.

---Florence

Out of My Pocket

Here is a little significant something that you don’t find out until you need it. Medicare requires 60 days between stays at a rehab facility. So I left my rehab and then fell down and smashed myself only 50 days afterward, meaning I’m not eligible for Medicare in the rehab facility where I spend considerable time restoring myself. The daily rate out of my pocket is so preposterous and is even higher because I insist on a private room.

There are four rehab facilities in my neighborhood. I was in one that I told you about before with their atrocious food and I have since received top notch outpatient physical therapy so I know what they were offering was negligible. That eliminates them as an option. Of the three remaining options, one was very highly recommended, but at $400/day I thought I would go second best -- although some people said that they were equal in physical therapy which is my prime concern.

My prime concern, because it’s my ticket out of here.

---Florence

Newer News. Bleh!

So, although I was still on a walker, I was home already, going up and down stairs and going to work. That was then.

We went to a little restaurant with my darling grandson Seth, my darling grand-daughter-in-law Kate and adorable baby Moses, eight months old. I had been wanting to share BBQ ribs with somebody. Seth said, “Ribs for me, too.” We peeled the meat off of one rib and stuck it in Moses’ hand. He popped it in his mouth. Ecstasy. Bliss. He knew it was better than squash. We had a good time.

Leaving, at the door my walker was unbalanced. I started to tip to the right in slow motion, calling “Arthur,” but I hit the floor on my right side. Splat. Lying there I knew I was in trouble. “Don’t touch me,” I said. I heard throughout the room, “Call 911.”

Paramedics took me to the hospital, which led to hip surgery on my right hip (broken in three places) and right elbow surgery a few days after that. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

After eight days in the hospital, I’m now in a rehab facility. I’m back to square one.

---Florence

NOTE: I dictated this to Bonnie, because I am unable to write.