As I don't have my camera with me . . . and as any pictures I might take here at the rehab facility would be boring/depressing/gruesome or some combination thereof . . . we'll make do with some old pictures that have been, well, rehabbed . . .
So, what did I do on my first full day of rehab? It started at five when blood was drawn, vital signs taken, and meds dispensed. I have a keen interest in those meds, as getting up and down really hurts . . . . and I suspect I'll participate more happily in therapy if the pain is kept at a dull roar. . .
My room is tiny but I have a bit of a view of an interior patio and sun and shadows across brick walls and metal roofs. And I don't have a room mate, thank goodness. I'm not actually very sociable in the best of times and having to chat with a stranger (or anyone, really)when I'm looking and feeling my worst is my idea of hell.
A never-ending stream of folks keep popping into my room to ask the same questions over and over-- How do you feel? (how do you think?) What are your aims for therapy? (survival) do you wear dentures?(no) hearing aids?(what?) when was your surgery? (Tuesday afternoon) OMG, was that sound your other knee? (yes, it's bone on bone. . .)
And I've discovered the small pleasures . . . brushing my teeth . . . a warm washcloth for my face (my last bath was Tuesday morning and I'm feeling a tad odorous . . . a fresh apple from home (institutional food is pretty disappointing) sitting in a wheelchair in a ray of sunshine while waiting my turn with the
inquisitor therapist. . .
The therapy is challenging and, there's no way around it, it HURTS. The therapists and, indeed, everyone here, are kind and patient and when, after giving a smartass answer to one charming young woman, I apologized for being grumpy, she just laughed. "Grumpy? At least you haven't bitten me yet."
And I'll try not to. .