Friday, April 21, 2017


During my last stay in the hospital. I was wearing street clothes and lipstick.  I wasn't hooked up to any fluids; I could eat and enjoy their surprisingly good food.  I wasn't sick:  I just couldn't walk.

A physical therapist showed me how to use a walker without wheels and he approved of how I handled the walker with wheels. Most of my days were spent testing and on Saturday afternoon, I was outfitted with braces for my feet and legs.

Then there was talk about putting me into a live-in rehabilitation where I could receive physical therapy daily and on a regular basis.  Initially, I thought that it was a good idea, but the insurance company had to approve.

While waiting for the insurance company's blessing, I really started to think about this prospect.  What are they going to do to me in rehab?  Why can't rehab come to me?  I would be satisfied if a physical therapist came to my home, worked with me, and showed me how to exercise my legs and feet.

I  began to protest:  I don't want to go to rehab!  I don't want to sit in the hospital and wait.  I want to go home to familiar surroundings.  If I could, I would bolt.

I don't want to go to rehab!  I want to go home.  Now!

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