I hadn't walked in over two months. A nurse or aide told me that for every day one spends immobile, one will spend three days getting back what was lost in that one day. During therapy, I would also understand that not only did I lose muscle mass but arthritis took over, especially in my left knee.
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I had a long road ahead. It is November, 2012. Actually, it is the last day of October.
When I transported to DRI I was shown to a lovely room over looking the Great Miami River. I was put into my bed and told, "we won't have you working today, but tomorrow, you will begin and fully clothed"
Okay! But fully clothed was not an option. I had no clothing with me except what was taken off of me two months ago. I don't want to think what it must look/smell like.
I decide to let the nurses and aides worry about it the next morning. I was alone. I felt a little afraid. Okay, a lot afraid. It probably wasn't a good thing to let me 'not' get busy. Some of the major drugs had been omitted and I was no loner hallucinating. I was much more aware of my fear and my loneliness. Some of my thoughts were about what was next for me. I had barely been at DRI for an hour and I was fearing the future.
No one explains to me what to expect in rehab. No one says get up and stay up. No one says do this or do that. I haven't a real clue as to what is expected of me. It will get even more confusing too.
I am quite comfortable. The bed seems to be made for me (if one can say this about a hospital bed), all I have to do is push a button to call a nurse or aide and someone sees to my every need.
I am awake early. Five o'clock. I turn the television on and watch the news. By six o'clock, I am dozing again but am awakened. "Good morning!" V. from physical therapy has introduced herself and asks if I would like a bath.
Yes! A bath sounds wonderful but I'm not strong enough to use the shower. She prepares a basin of warm soapy water, brings towels and wash cloths, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant and lotion. It's all set out for me and I'm so excited that I need help sitting up.
It feels wonderful to bathe myself. I explain to her that I have no clothing. She finds clean pajama pants and tells me to wear them with a clean hospital gown.
I feel clean! My teeth feel clean! I am feeling wonderfully human again! Therapy is great!
An hour later, V. wakes me from a sound sleep. "Time to go!"
I'm not sure what I thought except that, that bath wore me out. I sat up and saw she had a wheel chair waiting for me. "Can you transfer?" She asked.
I had to stop and think, could I? "Help me." I said and she did.
Transferring from one sitting position to another wasn't difficult once I caught on how to do it properly. I learned though and in doing so it was much like learning to walk. One will fall while learning, it's inevitable.
Therapy is not glamorous at all. Just like a baby there are certain things ones legs and feet have to get used to. Sitting in a wheel chair and exercising ones feet (heel, hold, toe, hold) seems silly and unimportant. Just as putting a ball between ones knees and squeezing back and forth without dropping the ball does. Tossing said ball back and forth to other patients was fun but why?
Attitude dripped off of me the first couple of days and then it was Saturday. No therapy today.
I was learning to do everything all over again. Going to the bathroom always required someone with me. The aide or nurse would make sure I transferred properly then would let me have my privacy. When I was done I would push a button and wait for someone to watch me transfer back to my chair. Today no one came right away so not wanting to wait I stood (holding the bar) pulled my pants up, turned, hopped and sat down in my chair.
I did it! Crying the whole time but I did it - and got yelled at by the nurse on duty for doing it alone. Someone had to at least be with me in case I fell. I took the scolding but was immensely pleased with myself at the same time.
My emotions seem to be on a high alert. The least little thing sets me off. I've always been emotional. Always. And have decided that I always will be but it seems all the drugs turned a switch on which has made me more emotional. It takes very little to make me cry.
When therapy started again, I went at it with a better mind set. Becky and Jeri had gone to my apartment to get my dirty clothes and Jeri took them home to wash them. Then she brought them to me at rehab. It felt so good to have clean clothes! Clean clothes! My own clothes! What a world of difference!
I caught something while there. No one really could tell what it was but it was some sort of rash. It started on my wrists and by the next day was all over my upper body. It didn't hurt or even itch but it was spreading fast. I got one good shot of steroid, a cortisone cream to put on twice a day and almost as quick as it appeared, it began to go away. Once it began drying it peeled like a burn of some kind. It never did bother me except that it was there.
During the next rehab, V. decided to put me on this machine. I don't know the name of it but this is what happens: You sit down. You are almost eye to eye with an attached table. V. straps you in (more than being strapped into a seat belt) and says "hold on".
Okay. Suddenly this machine begins to lift me up. I know my eyes are darting back and forth, to and fro because I see absolutely everything in front of me, to the sides and ceiling and floor! But I'm not falling, and the machine continues until I am standing completely upright. I can now put my arms on the table top.
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I am pleased too as you can see. And of course the second I saw this all I could see was my hair! It wasn't long after this that Ottie returned to give it another cut and shape.
You see the yellow "gown" I'm wearing over my clothes. I had to wear this every time I left my room because of the rash. Anyone visiting had to put one on. Although, it is getting better even at the time these pictures were taken.
While dealing with this rash, I was in my second week of rehab. The doctor on duty was considering when to send me home. I told him I felt that I still needed therapy and (lifting up my hospital gown to show my stomach and the "girls") told him "I didn't come in here with this (the rash), I won't go home with it." He agreed on both counts then told me to put my gown down.
I wasn't satisfied with what I was doing in therapy. I was ready for more and they gave it to me. Bicycling (feet and hand movements) was great. I loved doing the rickshaw. So much I wished I could have one at home. The rickshaw showed me just how out of shape I was.
I was pressing ten pounds, five pounds each side. It was so easy I requested an extra five for a total of ten pounds on each side. Where I could press to the count of 150 with just ten pounds, I barely made to 25 with the added ten pounds! It made a huge difference so I went back to five pounds each side. Still it was an exercise that felt good to do.
For three days in a row I was rolled to the end of the platform parallel bars, stood and tried to take a step. I couldn't. The pain was too terrible.
Still, it was important to build that muscle so I would stand in between those bars and do my best to step. And I did. My first step was done almost bent in half, hanging on to the bars for dear life. The second time I stood more erect, and took two steps. Taking these steps go like this: left foot flat and slide forward, right foot on tip toe and look at V. and tell her I can't. She shakes her head and says "yes you can. Start with right foot, stand on tip toe, hop forward bringing left foot as you go." I did it! Two steps but I did it!
I was determined to get stronger. Medicare was only going to pay for so much and I would soon be kicked out of here. I began taking responsibility for doing some things on my own.
Saturday and Sundays were therapy free days-usually. When I was left on my own, I would roll down to the small therapy room and do the basic exercises myself. I just went further than what the therapists were letting me go. If they let me do 20 or 30, I'd do 40 or 50. When I returned to my room, if my bed wasn't made I asked the nurse to give me everything I needed so I could make it.
This was really good therapy for my arms. The first time I couldn't get the fitted sheet over the mattress corners. I tried and tried. I had the nurse help me but watched how she did it. The next time I did it on my own. I made my own bed and cleaned and straightened my room. I did everything but sweep.
I was now rolling up and down the halls! I could get my own coffee in the morning or my own pop or water in the afternoon. I learned to grab a newspaper early in the mornings before they were all gone.
While learning to be independent, I was also learning how to dress myself. In the beginning it was tough getting a shirt on. (No bra for awhile) But I began to manage. My left arm was the worst (still is) but I learned to slip my shirt onto that arm first then use my good arm. Underwear and jeans were another thing all together.
I could get them over my feet and up to my knees (while sitting), then stand, letting my legs rest against the bed, and pull them up as far as I could before the legs gave out. The fun part was lying in bed, rolling from side to side and pulling my pants on with each roll. Roll to the right, pull up the left, roll to the left pull up the right. Repeat until I was completely satisfied my pants were on and I felt properly dressed.
I pushed myself to a point of exhaustion and K. my favorite nurse, put a stop to it on a Friday. I was told to sleep. I did almost eighteen hours.
I enjoyed everyone that helped me at DRI except one aide. I can only say that she took an immediate dislike to me. I did every thing wrong and when I had to ask for help she belittled me for asking. Each time I buzzed for help she would walk into the room, open her mouth and negativity spewed out.
It had been pounded into me to ask that there be an aide or nurse with me when I get up and go to the bathroom. I buzzed one night for this side and waited and waited and waited. I finally got up, and went into the bathroom on my own. I was just about to transfer back to my wheel chair, she walks in and literally begins yelling at me for not waiting for her!
I lost it. I wept with fierce frustration and yelled at her to get away from me. Realizing she had pushed me too far, she came at me and I just about went ballistic. It brought the aides and a nurse, someone made her leave and the aide and nurse helped me into my chair. I was wheeled back to my bed and helped in. I was crying the whole time.
K. came in with a shot and while she was doing this, THAT nurse came in and tried to apologize. I yelled at her "your forgiven, now get out of my room!"
My poor neighbors, sincerely.
I was not allowed to do therapy the next day. I was being discussed, I was sure of it but I wasn't worried. If I was worried about anything it was how I reacted. My high level of emotions got the better of me combined with the fact that I just couldn't take any more from that person.
I was right, I was being discussed. One of the aides opened up enough to tell me that that aide was like that with everyone. The Director of Nursing came and talked to me about the incident and had me sign a complaint form. She asked me a couple of questions, I answered. I told her honestly that I just couldn't take her mean-mindedness. I also told her it was as if she was resentful in having to care for me and wondered aloud if she was like that with everyone.
I would leave this place very soon. I was as strong as I could be and was feeling more independent.
I became over confident a few times. I would begin to transfer from my wheelchair to the bed and immediately knew I did something wrong. I was slipping. I tried to correct my position but it was too late. I had enough time to hit the buzzer, held on for dear life and when they answered I yelled "I'm falling!" but by the time I said it, I was on the floor. I guess it says something for my strength that I could hold myself up long enough to simply slip to the floor instead of crashing. I never hurt myself, not once, my pride maybe but not physically.
For some odd reason, therapy was required to witness everything a patient might accomplish. I was okay with it up until I took a shower on my own. I got tired of waiting for therapy to come around and wake me up one morning (something they hadn't had to do in two weeks) and decided to get up and take a shower.
Of course while I was rinsing off, V. comes in and asks why I didn't wait for her. I really didn't have a good answer so I said, "I needed a shower, I can do it alone now, doesn't that count for something?"
"I have to write it down!" She said.
Unfortunately, I said, "So, write it down."
She stormed out of the bathroom and I didn't see her during therapy that day. Seriously, what are they going to do, kick me out? I'm leaving in few days.
V. took this offense pretty hard. During the last few days she barely spoke to me during my workouts. I also think she was miffed because I went looking for things to do during other therapy sessions. But, I also know that doing this on my own got back to V's boss and my doctor. They approved of my independence without saying a word against me or her. I would be going home two days before Thanksgiving.
The day before I would go home was wildly spent doing things (it felt like) they had missed having me do. I was taken to a kitchen and was watched as I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I was taken to a regular bathroom and told to transfer to the shower bench then back to my wheelchair. I was never shown how to transfer from wheelchair to car.
When Tuesday came I was told I'd be ready to go home by one or so. Jeri and Becky were there waiting with me. They were both there so therapy could show/help me transfer from the wheelchair to Becky's van or Jeri's car. This day was a disaster.
We waited all day long, literally. It was awful. Not for me, for Jeri and Becky! There was nothing to do but wait. I was ready. K. kept checking on me and would tell me they had so many going home that the doctor was way behind. (the doctor had to see each patient before they left).
He did not make it to my room until late afternoon. It was starting to get dark. I barely heard anything he said. I just took the paperwork and prescriptions said good-bye and left the room. It was so chaotic! When we got outside K. and the director of therapy was there and all he did was watch me NOT be able to get into Becky's van. I had to roll over to Jeri's car and get in. All the while the director just watching. I don't know, maybe that's what he gets paid to do!
I made the mistake of putting on an old pair of jeans that morning. I had lost a lot of weight. The jeans were already stretched out and pinned in the back. When I stood to transfer to Jeri's car, my pants fell to the ground! Jeri says, "Shirley, your pants fell!" Bless her heart. She helped me get them back up, I got into the car and she loaded the wheelchair. The director just watching, maybe he wanted to make sure Jeri could load it.
We were finally on our way. We had to go to a pharmacy to fill the prescriptions. It would take almost two hours. I needed them. I told Jeri we could go on to the apartment then come back but I didn't mind sitting here and waiting either. I let her decide. We sat and waited.
They didn't have two of the prescriptions but I didn't care. I wanted to go home. I knew Micah and Mr. Mister were home and I couldn't wait to see them.
Jeri, God love her, was so helpful and patient that day. I tried to apologize but she blew me off. When we finally got into my apartment it was almost eight o'clock p.m. She sees Mr. Mister then Micah. I tell her Micah's not very friendly with strangers and might bite. The whole time I'm telling her this, she's opening his cage, puts her hand in and he steps right onto it! Oh well, the entire day hadn't gone the way I expected, why would this.
I am home, I am home, I am home. Thank you Father, thank you!
