Progress Report

Much improvement! I'm cooking and doing laundry and other light chores. Going up and down stairs (carefully) and no longer need to sit down to shower nor to use a cane. I do use a stick on the uneven terrain outside but I've done that for years. 

And I drove to the store on Monday! Pushed the buggy up and down aisles at a good clip! And when I got home, I carried two big bags of groceries up the steps. (John brought the rest. He had accompanied me in case I got too tired but I just felt energized!)  

By the time I put the groceries away, however, I was feeling a tad weary. And all day Tuesday I was as stiff and creaky as if I'd been hoeing corn or some other tiring exercise. Too much irrational exuberance in the grocery store.

However. It's a start. I'm back on the road! Though, as a kind friend here or on Facebook reminded me, it's probably time to put aside that dream of playing in the NFL...

Bonafide!

Bonafide, certified, fortified, justified, satisfied, maybe even sanctified!

I had my last visit from the very nice physical therapist who has been working with me since I came home and she declared herself pleased with my progress. She watched me descend (backward) and ascend the steep basement stairs that have heretofore been a no go zone and then we went for a little walk outside. 

Now it's just a matter of doing a bit more each day. But what a pleasure to be outside! The snow is gone and it's rather balmy out.

Spring bulbs are nosing their way into the light (not unlike myself.)

And the wide world awaits!

Update

This is just to say that I'm managing pretty well at home. John, with help from Justin and Claui, is doing the heavy lifting here -- cooking etc. -- while I hobble about with my walker or sit with my feet elevated or do my PT exercises.

I have managed to wrap presents, scramble an egg for my breakfast, wash a few dishes, change the sheets on my bed, and do a little dusting (self-prescribed occupational therapy.) 

A home health physical therapist visited on Tuesday and I am beginning to wean from the use of the big, clompy, annoying-to-get-on-and-off boot to an ordinary lace up sneaker. My foot has a tendency to swell after I walk around for any length of time, therefore I do a lot of the aforementioned foot elevating.

But what a joy to do it at home, surrounded by Christmas and family (that includes the dogs and kittehs)!  

Goodbye Trees . . .

Goodbye trees, goodbye sky . . . you've been a pleasure to see these past months.

I'm heading home after breakfast and none too soon.

Thanks to all who have enlivened this journey with your comments and well wishes.

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 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

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.

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!

Disappointed!

X-rays showed good healing and bone growth BUT one tiny not-quite-ready-for-prime-time crevice. I will begin partial weight-bearing next Monday and, after 10-14 days of that, graduate to full weight-bearing, still in the boot. 

Somewhere in this time frame I should be able to go home -- as soon as I can navigate a bit with a walker. Home by Christmas, the doctor said, and I tried not to shriek But I want to be home yesterday.

The good news is that I'll have a further opportunity for weight loss.  I've lost about 16 pounds since I've been here in rehab . . . it's amazing how easy it is to turn down food that isn't appetizing. Fruit and food from home or near by places keep me going. Otherwise, I eat the protein and the more bearable veg that are served. 

This is a first world problem -- I could be in Aleppo or in a refugee camp or homeless. Or in any number of similarly dire situations. Time to do some exercises and get those neurotransmitters cranking.

Get Up, Stand Up . . .. . .

I am now on my own for therapy -- there being no more goals that the PT or OT folks can help me accomplish  until my ankle is weight bearing. 

Which doesn't mean I'm free to read all day long -- no, I have

been tasked with pages of exercises designed to strengthen my legs in preparation for walking again and to improve the range of motion in my shoulder as it recovers from being dislocated.

So four times a day (before breakfast, before lunch, midafternoon, and after supper)  I'm lying or sitting in bed, doing isometric strengthening things or gripping either end of a reacher (not the Lee Child type) to assist the weak arm to move higher and higher or kicking out with my legs or marching  in place. Sometimes I have reggae music on my laptop to help me. Bob Marley's "Get Up, Stand Up" is my theme song.

I've never been good at routine exercise, more's the pity, but with the goal of walking (and going Home) in sight, I am dedicated. 

And the bonus is that exercise is a mood lifter, possibly

because of endorphins released. Or serotonin or norepinephrin or fairy dust (See HERE for article.)

 While there are mornings (particularly since the election) when I think I might just pull the covers over my head and refuse to deal with reality,  once I start exercising and feel the blood circulating, suddenly things seem less hopeless.

Let's hear it for those neurotransmitters!

From My Window

Beyond my window

A corps de ballet of trees

Sways in the cold wind.

And thank goodness for the window! My roommate in the other bed seems to enjoy looking out the door into the hallway to see who's passing. Not me -- I keep the dividing curtain mostly drawn to afford myself some semblance of privacy and to block the constant flicker of her television.

Watching the light move on the trees, giving my eyes some distance to focus on -- these things make me feel close to normal.

Healing

John brings me lunch most days, and a can of hard cider (shhh!) It's a welcome treat and a chance for us to eat a meal together. Sub sandwiches, an occasional burger, a Greek salad from a nearby bistro . . . anything to escape institutional food.

On Tuesday the wind had blown the smoke from the ongoing forest fires away from us  and the temperature was mild so we went outside and he pushed me in my wheelchair all around the building.

There's a bit of autumn color remaining but the ongoing drought has been hard on everything.

Still, it was glorious to be out and breathing fresh air.

And taking pictures . . .

I also got out yesterday to the wound care center where they say the wound continues to make excellent progress in healing.

Maybe we could send the whole country there.

Bedlam

The word bedlam (a place of uproar and confusion) derives from Bethlem Royal Hospital in London -- originally an insane asylum where outsiders could visit and gape at the poor unfortunates incarcerated there. (There's a much fuller description HERE.)

Why do I bring this up? Because for the past several days a patient on my hall has been bellowing at the top of her lungs, OHOHOHOHOHOHOH, over and over. It's the sound I think I make when I'm having a terrifying nightmare, though in actuality, mine is more of a strangled croak, John tells me. 

Sometimes it turns into a long drawn-out growl and I find myself hoping she isn't ambulatory. And sometimes it turns into nonsense OHOHOHWOGOHOTO, as if she's trying to communicate something.

I've asked the CNAs what's up here and all they can (or will) tell me is that she was in the hospital and now she's here. I'm wondering if this is post-operative dementia or what. Or maybe she's a HRC supporter, having trouble adjusting.

But, annoying as it is, it's also heartbreaking.

UPDATE: I was just told that the poor woman recently suffered a stroke. And that the only thing that will quiet her is when her family comes to visit. The thought that she's howling because she's alone and afraid is even worse.

Counting my blessings . . .

 

Another Day . . .Another Trip to the Wound Care Doctor

My chariot awaits . . .

This was on Tuesday and the air was smoky from the many forest fires burning in western NC.

Still, an outing is an outing.

And I had excellent news -- counting from my first visit two weeks ago, the wound is 87% healed and much diminished in size. The doctor said that my progress was 'phenomenal' and that I obviously have a very strong constitution. (It must be all that clean living.)

I got a picture of the wound to share with one of the nurses back at the facility but it's so gross looking, I can hardly stand it. It looks a bit like the inside of a pomegranate. But I'll spare you all that and leave you with this selfie.