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?”
“No, thanks.”
(pause)
“You sure?”
“Yes. “
(pause)
“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:
Die young.