30 Days? Kid stuff. Six weeks.
So- after surgery, a few things were determined:
I have to stay off this foot until it heals.
I will need six weeks of IV therapy.
IV therapy at home is hell even with help.
Living alone means I cannot stay off the foot.
My insurance will not let me stay in the hospital, even if I wanted to.
The answer? Six weeks of IV therapy in a nursing home.
That’s correct. A geriatric facility, an Old Age Home, a diaper academy.
It’s as surreal as you think. The care is, an many ways, better than the hospital, and I have freedom to move around in my wheelchair, I can even get online from time to time. But the most insidious element is the well meaning conspiracy to steal what dignity I have left. It’s not malicious, it’s habit. The staff is utterly conditioned to dealing with folks who can’t clean themselves, feed themselves, or in many cases, express themselves. So I come as a bit of a surprise.
An attendant points at the “wee- wee pad” which I have removed from my bed, as I have no intention of urinating theon.
“Do you need that?”
“I can put tht back for you.”
“No. No, thank you. It’s fine.”
Or the attendant who hovers around to bathe me in the morning. It’s OK, really- the only thing that does not work is the foot. Really. Now go away.
Soulhuntre suggested I see it as an exercise in accepting service. Were I to do that, in six weeks I would be squeezed out of here a corpulent vegetable, expecting to be fed, groomed, bathed, wiped, and attended in all ways, like Baron Harkonnen wih no power or wealth… just a lump suited for nothing but, perhaps, the Jerry Springer show.
This is so wrong. My advice: