My home health nurse completed her first
visit with me at my mother's house. As she
packed her medical equipment, she had one final task for me before she could
move on to the next household. She needed my signature to verify she had
gone over my vital signs with me. As with most people, asking for a
signature is not a hefty ordeal. However, with little control of my
nervous system, it was a complicated task for me. Luckily, my autograph
typically looks like a decipherable drawing done by a toddler, so there was no
need to sweat it.
From November 18, 2011 on, my mother was
to be my primary caregiver. With that, the nurse spoke to mom at
a minuscule volume, as if the nurse was whispering to her
confidentially. I could hear a few truncated words, and phrases.
The nurse had a three ring binder of
material, and notes for my mother to refer to, if needed. I heard the
word hospice, again, and I still did not know what that implied. The only
connection I could make was 'hospitality', after working in the food and
beverage industry for my entire adult life. I was sure I was better off
left in the dark when it came to things that were supposed to make me
comfortable. It never sounded pleasant when nurses and doctors discussed
my comfort level.
Soon after the nurse departed, a physical
therapist arrived. I had already expressed that there was no need for a
personal motivator for me to accomplish walking. I surmised I could take
my rehab one step at a time. Literally.
I had no desire to attempt the aluminum
walker that the hospital sent home with me. The back legs of the upright
stroller had rubber stops on the ends, and the front had wheels made of the
same unwieldy material. It was a momentousness challenge to utilize
the awkward contraption on the squeaky smooth hospital tile. To take on
the carpeted terrain of my mother's living room was silly, in my view.
When the walking coach arrived, her
look was suitably akin to my assistant in the hospital. She was about
5'3", and notably strapping. Her arms were not masculine, but I
could tell she pumped iron. She had a typical southern girl appearance,
with neck length straw colored locks, and a golden palmetto tree pendant to
match.
All of the tools my handicapped body would
need were still in the living room. I had my very own brand new
wheelchair. Its chrome was lustrous, and the polished black vinyl
seat could have been in an Armor All commercial.
My aluminum walking trekker remained in the packaging it was
shipped in, and wrapped tightly in clear duct tape.
The hospital did not fail to issue another
parting gift. It was a portable commode. With that precious item, I
was free to dump in any room I found to be the most convenient. The catch
was, if I decided to take advantage of my mobile manure bucket, I would have to
clean it out. Merely standing for too long would usually make
me nauseous, and I did not trust my balance to lean over a nomadic, soiled
toilet.
The first procedure we embarked upon
revealed my skill level, or lack thereof, on the walker. By then, my
muscles had grown thinner and more atrophied than they were previously in the
hospital. I required a helping hand to pull me up into a sitting
position, and another hand between my shoulder blades to hold me steady.
Once I was standing upright, yet hunched
over, I had to lock my elbows open to hold myself up. I dragged the
walker only a few feet before I had to quit. The therapist supported my
trip back to the sofa, and I dropped swiftly onto the cushion. After
that, I was certain I would not be using the walker in the house.
My assistant adjusted the height of the
stroller for the elderly while I schemed how I would get around without it.
I concluded I would hang onto varying walls and furniture, like a child
in the deep end of a pool, if I ever needed to be somewhere else in the house.
I knew that I would not be leaving the couch often, and I sensed taking
trips to the loo without the walker would be more dangerous. I was
willing to risk a fall now and then, if it saved me time and effort.
We then turned our attention to the
wheelchair. I was grateful the therapist did not ask me to have a seat in
it. She agreed that I would not be using it in the house. I almost
didn't receive a wheelchair. The hospital personnel were ready
to discharge me without providing any supplies I would need for short trips.
The staff did not take into account my inability to even exit my mother's
car. It seemed once I was in the car and out of their hospital, I was not
their problem anymore.
From my perspective, the chair
appeared as if it were made for a small person. The thought did not cross
my mind that I was a small person. I weighed 150
pounds, and at least twenty pounds were in my abdomen. Otherwise, my body
could be put on display to show examples of different sizes and shapes of bones
that make up the human skeleton. To appease me, the therapist pointed out
all of the various clamps, and extensions that would be adjusted to a more
suitable size for me. I immediately forgot which items she demonstrated.
Finally, she presented my portable latrine
like one of the girls on The Price is Right. It was made of untouched,
hard plastic that was the color of slate. The supports curved around to
make two inflexible arms, that were attached to aluminum with a dull sheen.
The therapist lifted the lid, and demonstrated the removable bucket.
Subsequently, I decided there would be no wear and tear on this utility.
I was not going to shit in a pot in the living room.
The therapist then produced a plastic
bottle that I could employ to relieve urine pressure. What she did not
know was that my penis was still too shriveled from the nearly complete
shutdown of my body. There was no way I would be able to manipulate
myself, and pee downward over the lip of the jug. I was sure that if I
attempted such a maneuver that I would piss everywhere except for the
canteen. The entire scenario gave a brand new meaning to the term
"whiskey dick."
While the physical therapist wrapped up
her presentation, she asked if I would like set up a schedule with her.
"Do you want me to come by one time
per week, or two?" she asked.
"You don't have to come by at
all," I shrugged. "I want to do this on my own."
Another stubborn decision had been made by
me, and I never saw that therapist, again.
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