Here’s a little something I wrote in the beginning of March at my stay at what we used to call a “Nursing Home”. It’s not surprising that I didn’t publish it. It was just around that time that the antibiotics were taking their toll on me and I was losing weight at an alarming rate…like that’s a bad thing.
After three surgeries on my left knee the consensus among all concerned was to send me to a nice, skilled, nursing facility or as we used to call it: “nursing home”. It’s only a few miles from our house. With the first knee replacement back in September I categorically refused to go through rehab in such a place. Yet, this time after 3 surgeries on the same knee in nearly as many weeks, I gave in. RM would not be able to handle me, my ’round the clock I.V.’s for 6-8 weeks; unable to walk, blah, blah, blah.It’s not that I feel like the “Prisoner of Zenda” or even the “Man in the Iron Mask”. No, I don’t feel like a criminal, just ill and being kept prisoner by my body which fails to compromise with me. I’m not even sure how long I have been here in the Club Med of Tampa Bay.
Each time I try to wheel myself around outside in my silly wheelchair, a bevy of nurses and techs swoops down on me–interrogating me and making me feel guilty for wanting some sunshine. Yes, the campus is smoke free and certainly I am trying to get in a few puffs and obviously I have lost my touch.I must admit, it’s a nice place. Plenty of staff; large, private room and bath; beautiful grounds; and the list goes on. I only have two complaints. The physical therapists keep trying to get me to walk using the knee that’s missing a crucial ligament and someone needs to kill the chef..