Nearly There . . .

Yesterday John brought the truck that tried to kill me to the facility so I could see if I could climb in and get out safely. He also brought a handy-dandy little step stool he'd made (the truck is rather high off the ground.)

And as he and a physical therapist watched, I got in the truck, and out of the truck, and then did it all over again because it was so easy!

Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Wednesday is my Freedom Day!

From the Other Side of the Curtain

She was my roommate for most of the past two months -- a constant presence in my life – sometimes annoying (her TV stayed on day and night as did her lights) – sometimes endearing (she had a marvelous chuckling laugh and always said how nice John and Justin were because they would pass the time of day with her before coming over to my side of the curtain -- which I kept drawn so as not to be distracted by the flicker of the TV and the passing of people in the hallway.)

We were both caught up in our own problems and schedules and didn’t chat much but from the other side of the curtain I learned an awful lot.

She’d been a waitress for years at The Mediterranean – a popular Asheville restaurant/diner in the business district – and "had made good money too." I imagine her as one of those sassy, wise-cracking, no nonsense-taking gals who becomes an institution.

She’d "smoked like a freight train" for many years (part of her current health problems) and had a hysterectomy at an early age. No children, never married.

This was her third stay at this facility – recently she’d had a fall at home and had been sent to the hospital and then back here where she had many friends on the staff who gave her wonderful loving care and teased her out of her occasional grumpiness.

She had lived nearby in a trailer "full of knick-knacks," just down the road from one of her brothers. This brother seemed to be the one most involved in her care – he did her laundry and it was he that I could hear her fussing with from the other side of the curtain.

When he suggested that she would have to stay here longer, she bowed up like a mule. No, she would not. She’d made up her mind and she wouldn’t. She would go home and make it someways. (At this point, she could not walk or dress herself and needed help for her frequent trips to the bathroom.)

Then, a few days ago, when the doctor told her that she had congestive heart failure and was not going to be able to go home, she was distraught – I’ll kill myself, she said, before I stay here the rest of my life.

Saturday just after noon, I heard her cry out from the other side of the curtain, "Where am I? This isn’t my room." And then there was an aide calling her name over and over and someone shouting for the nurse and a great commotion as more and more people poured into the room.

One of the physical therapists came and took me away. The curtain was drawn around my roommate’s bed and frantic activity was going on behind that curtain. From the window of the therapy room, I could see the ambulance with flashing lights parked at the entrance.

The therapist took me for a long walk, then back to the therapy room for some practice with stairs and balance. 

Outside the ambulance was still waiting.

We went for another long walk and when we returned, the ambulance was gone and I went back to the now silent room. Silent and cold. The air conditioning had been turned on and the window was open a few inches.

The atmosphere on the hall was subdued – several of the aides were fighting tears. She probably had a heart attack, one person told me but that was all.

The next morning, I learned that my roommate had died almost instantly, attempts at resuscitation had been futile.

When the aide who had loved her best came in to pack up her belongings, she told me that the window had been left open so the spirit could escape.

I'm glad she did.

The Real Work

Back and Forth in Time

All my recent reads do a little time traveling:  The People of the Book works backward in time, tracing the history of a rare illuminated haggadah from its present day status in the hands of a curious conservator who wonders just what various inclusions in the binding and marks on the parchment mean. The butterfly wing, the fine white hair, the missing clasps, the stains of blood, salt, and wine all have their stories to tell. And while the diligent conservator learns quite a bit, through the marvel of the novelist's story-telling, the reader learns the whole, fascinating story of this marvelous book and its travels and its preservation by a cast of characters that include Muslims and Christians, as well as Jews. From modern day Sarajevo back to 15th century Spain

I loved this book -- as I always love historical fiction that adds to my knowledge.

(Psst! It's only 1.99 on Kindle  )

Conversely, Alice Hoffman's The Red Garden travels from the founding of a lonely, magic-touched New England village through the centuries to the present day. Wonderful characters and description in Hoffman's lovely prose.  (And it's another blue light special for Kindle.)

Currently I'm a little ways into Jasper Fforde's second Thursday Next adventure and am finding it lots of fun -- even if some of the allusions escape me. Somehow this is my first Fforde book though I've had them recommended to me often.

And the time travel here is backwards, forwards, and sideways. Probably some other ways too.  As I say, lots of fun!

(This too is 1.99 for Kindle -- do you see a pattern emerging?)

The Door is Opening

Manchu Picchu by Lynn Parsons

Progress is happening -- on the 7th, the wound on my right leg was pronounced healed  -- an open crater the size of my palm, seeming miraculously healed over with no intervention beyond a pressure bandage. No more weekly visits to the wound care center.

My physical therapy has become intense -- lots of walking with the walker --  promenades down the hall three or four times  day --and continued shoulder exercises with the addition of weights.

And best of all . . .

I am scheduled to go HOME next Wednesday, the 14th!!!

(If as Miss Birdie says, nothing don't happen.)

Manchu Picchu by Lynn Parsons

From the Archives

Like a Steppin' Razor

"I'm like a steppin' razor. Don't you watch my size;

I'm dangerous . . . dangerous . . ."

That's another of my favorite reggae songs that I'm humming now.

Because yesterday I walked (with a walker) from the PT room to my own room -- almost a whole fifty feet. 

Woo hoo!

A Beginning . . .

,

And I did! Weight-bearing at last!  Under the influence of Claui's embroidered message (destined for the Christmas tree but adorning my window sill just now,) I practiced pulling myself to a standing position from my wheelchair to a walker. Eventually I was able to stand unsupported (look, Ma, no hands) and able to stand at a table putting together a puzzle for five minutes.

No pain, a tiny bit of swimmie-headnesss at first, and the therapist feels things are looking good for rapid progress. Walking was not attempted -- perhaps tomorrow.

I will, of course, keep you posted on my progress.

But the Menu Says .. .

There seems to be an imaginative soul turning out these menus that accompany the meals here. Sausage patty?

Looks like bacon to me. French toast? Nope, it's a waffle.

Zucchini and yellow squash? Surprise! It's carrots!

What bacon? What toast? And no matter how many times they say grits, it's always oatmeal.

Mystery Rock

This pretty little rock -- small enough to hide in the palm of my hand -- was decorating the potted bulbs I mentioned yesterday. I was intrigued by it and wondered what it was -- orange quartz mixed with something else or agate or . . .? Bits of it look like polished ivory.

Plus, as John pointed out, it really looks like a netsuke waiting to happen -- maybe if I turn it this way . . .

I've spent a lot of time picking up pretty rocks but have never seen one quite like this. So I called Nancy and asked where it came from.

From a bag of decorative rocks in the garden supply section at Lowes was the answer.

So now I need to find out from whence Lowes sources their rocks.

(Time on  my hands . . .)

Addendum: Justin just told me that it was he who stuck the rock in the pot. And he doesn't remember where it came from. Just a rock he picked up somewhere and had lying around the house. . .

Brightening the Corner Where I Am . . .

The past few days brought some charming additions to the decor of my cell room. Nancy, Claui's mom, put together this pot with a white amaryllis bulb as well as some paperwhite narcissi,  in the midst of variegated ivy. It will be a pleasure to watch the green shoots growing.

And a longtime blog friend, professional quilter Pepper Cory, sent me this lovely quilt from her stash. It does a great job of brightening up the room and making me smile.

And speaking of quilts and longtime blog friends, Therese in Toulouse sent me this beautiful publication about making penny quilts using a combination of wool felt, regular fabrics, and embroidery. I can't wait to try this. I was thrilled to find that, though it's all in French (of which I had one brief summer course in college over fifty years ago,) I can understand it well enough to make sense of it.

I have felt such support from all of you during the past two months -- online well-wishes and cheerful chatter, prayers, healing vibes, cards, letters, flowers, books, food, fruit, and chocolate. Even the odd healing spell or two.

I am so blessed. Many thanks, my dear friends!

Miss Birdie and the Caged Crow

Oh, my, I didn't hear you come in the room, Lizzie Beth. I reckon you think I'm crazy, setting here on the side of the bed and jigging about like a crazy woman.  Come on in and get you a seat in my wheelchair.

I ain't lost my wits -- them was my exercises. The therapy girls showed me what I need to do to get strong enough to where I can get around with a walker, oncet that bone doctor says I may. And oncet I can do that, Lizzie Beth, why then I can go home.

Dor'thy has said she'll stay with me as long as I need her and, law, how I do want to be gone! The folks here is all good somebodies and I couldn't have made it without them but it ain't home. The water don't taste right, for one thing. And there ain't that much to look at except the TV, the trees and sky outside the window, and this picture here at the foot of my bed.

I been studying on that picture right much. Reckon where that is? Some fine city in the olden days . . . maybe Charlotte, do you think? Look at that horse pulling that pretty red wagon and all the fancy folks out taking the air. That woman in the long white dress had best watch out though. The pavement looks wet and was a wagon to come by on her side, that fine dress would get ruint for sure.

Oh, listen to me run on. I get so tired of the TV that I spend a lot of time thinking about that picture and wondering where all them folks is going. Imaging the sound of the horse's hooves and the smell of rain on the pavement and the sweet smell of all them flowers over there to the right . . . In that picture ain't a bad place to be, though there is too many buildings and not enough trees for my taste.

But I'll tell what else I think about, especially when I'm setting here doing these exercises. I think about the time Cletus brung home a crow with a broken wing. He wanted me to carry him to the animal doctor but I called first and the doctor said that what we should do was to cut the toe out of a sock and make a kind of sleeve to put over that old crow. He said it would hold his wing close to his body so that it would heal.  And he said to leave it on for about six weeks before we took it off.

So Cletus fixed a cage and we got a sock on the old crow and fed him dogfood and hard boiled eggs. The crow was right calm about the whole affair -- crows have a lot of sense, you know.

Howsomever, when at last it come time to take the sock off, that crow would set there on his perch and flap his wings -- just a little bit at first but then more and more and harder and harder, like he was getting ready to fly. And at last we figured he was ready.

Cletus opened the door of the cage and that crow just set there looking, then, big as life, he hopped out onto the grass, spread his wings, and took off flying, getting higher and higher till he reached the trees across the road. Law, it was such a sweet sight, me and Cletus both like to busted out crying for happiness.

So that's how come you to find me setting on my bed and waving my arms and legs like a crazy woman. Honey, I'm a-making ready to fly the coop!

Sometimes a Kitten is the Best Medicine

These are from April, 2013, when the kittehs joined our menagerie. I'd forgotten how small they were -- and how difficult to tell apart when they were moving around,

They weren't sure about their new home after the security of their cage at the animal shelter.

But they quickly found things to do.

From sitting on the boom box . . .

To playing on the stairs . . .

Feather toys were good . . .

As was a convenient cap for a nap.