I’m still trying to get past the grief of losing my husband, and the physical overcomes me. After falling 10-12 times in May, I find myself in a live in physical therapy facility with having had a concussion, a fractured humorous in 2 places, and stitches above my eye with a beautiful black eye which runs into my side hair-line.
I shouldn’t complain too much about it, but they won’t let me go home at this time. I’ve been told there are several issues or reasons I can’t go home and they are; there is a memory problem, I can’t be trusted not to fall down again, and I am not able to write a check because I forgot how to write one. These are the reasons I’ve been told why I can’t go home, because they say I am not able to live by myself.
What would you do if you found yourself in the same situation? First of all I will never again say I forgot while I am in here. I took a plain check size piece of paper, wrote each line – date, amount with dollar sign, pay to the order of, memo, and signature; then I filled it in. I then took that check and put it on the social services desk with a note saying that this was one excuse that she could no longer use.
This morning I told the nurse that I would like the doctor to end my treatment of Percocet and put me on 800 mg of ibuprofen instead. I don’t know where they got the notion that I use Hydrocodone at home and I use it all the time. Then I go and ask for more.
At the hospital upon discharge to here, I was told very different things then what they are telling me upon admission to this rehabilitation unit. There are no things that can’t be attributed to the care of my husband at home; he was taken away from me and then his being admitted to here. Then I watched him become sicker and sicker until he died a painful death. This was not figured into this equation. How quickly they put up the reasons for me not to go home, but quicker they forgot the pain that I have been through since my last goodbye I said to my husband.
That last goodbye took place in this room that I am in. When I came to see him, I found him, a cold skeleton with his head bent back and eyes open. No one was aware of his death. I put his head in the normal position, closed his eyes, and kissed him for the last time. Then I went to find the nurse to let her know that he had died. After that some friends came to pick me up and I went home to a cold house and the knowledge he would never come home again.
Of course these things could never have affected my memory, nor could the concussion I suffered because of the last two falls I took at home. One split my forehead just over my eye needing nine stitches and fractured my humorous. Then I had the gall of falling backward on the cement because I couldn’t steer my four-wheeled walker with one arm in a sling. This was the unfortunate fall that put me in the hospital. This is the one that confused my memory further. The doctors in the hospital told me that I was falling down because of a low amount of vitamin B-12. They pumped me full of that vitamin plus some others. I also receive the same here.
I’ve been here in this live-in therapy place for two weeks now. I can now walk without a cane; I can balance myself and am retraining myself to walk a straight line with one foot in front of the other. I refuse to say anything to the effect of I don’t remember or I got confused.
I will go home, and not to a place of assistance because I am able to care for myself. I am trying to go beyond what physical therapy expects of me, and I am. So each exercise if they say do ten, I do fifteen. There is no reason to not let me go home.
A lifelong desire of mine has been to write. As a child I wrote, even though it needed some pizzazz; but as a child, my abilities were very limited as you can imagine. Every person has much to learn, and I did that along the road to adulthood. I sure wish I kept them so I could us them for other posts. Fool that I am, I destroyed them.
There were diaries through childhood abuse, tossed out. I guess that they served their purpose. Diaries I also kept through 2 abusive marriages and where are they now? They have all been destroyed, but yet I love to write. I guess that I didn't see any reason to keep them at the time, but as I write now, I can see the true value of them, precious.
When I write now, I keep everything no matter how bad it seems to be. When I was in therapy I wrote everyday. Even if there are parts I don't want exposed, I don't expose it, but that is nothing new to writers. They have been doing this for years, and it works well.