Progress @ The Home

The first cast is off - on to the second of three and the foot is a slightly more normal angle to the leg. The ballet point of the purple cast has been replaced with a better angle, and that means my toes are out of the way when I wheel about.

Small improvements - hopping is coming along, and I’ve graduated to “modified independent” on my wall chart. That means I don’t need to press the button any more to ensure there’s an aide in the room when I do the transfers involved in getting from chair or bed to wheelchair to walker to toilet. 

Big news here in the world of The Home. And another measure of regaining autonomy. And another lesson in humility. 

Among the lessons the Universe is providing by this unexpected experience is how hard it is for me to need and ask for help. Even worse is having to ask permission to do tasks I mastered when I was three. But here at The Home, there are rules. And the rules say that until one is cleared to accomplish certain tasks, one needs to push a button to summon an aide to be there to assist. 

The aides are busy around here so summoning an aide can take time. Turns out that waiting for help is another skill I lack. 

The upside is that all of the nurses, aides and PTs and OTs are wonderful people. A necessary attribute because, boy, do they put up with a lot! 

For example, it’s hard for those with memory issues to remember about the little call button, so shouts of “HELLLOOOOO!” ring down the hall. It’s alarming when they switch to calls of “HELLLPPP!” But that does get the feet running. 

Then there’s the gentleman who refuses to put on pants. He wheels about in his chair with open-backed hospital gown which is only alarming when he chooses to prop his leg over his other knee during group PT. Then I have a deep appreciation for the importance of perspective - and roll myself over to the parallel bars for a little standing one legged work.

My time here at The Home will be over soon since, other than this pesky snapped Achilles, I have no other medical issues. So I’ll transition to short term respite care at a different facility - and am looking forward to another learning experience enabled by this saga of snap. 

Life in The Home

As I approach the end of week two in the TCU here at The Home, I have to admit that living in this island of time and space isn’t all bad.

The cast of caregivers remains compassionate and attentive. My compatriots are all somewhere on the spectrum of variously enabled and frequently amusing but always kind souls. And I’m learning which menu items are simply a bad idea when prepared in an institutional kitchen.

So for the upsides - I was told by one of the chatty aides that I’m among the most cognizant on the hall. Woohoo! Sure, that may be a low bar, but at least that’s one bar I can exceed here. 

My hopping skills are progressing. My left foot no longer feels like it’s glued to the floor as the useless right foot just dangles in its raised position, rather than dare to come anywhere near its rightful weight-bearing role. Side note? It’s really difficult to keep your brain informed that the role of the right leg has shifted from useful appendage for walking into a heavily casted somewhat useless object for the next five weeks.

I’ve tested out a knee scooter which seems like it could be promising, if I didn’t feel like I have T-Rex dinosaur arms based on the narrow width of the handlebars. Still seems like it could be kinda tippy for much use and tipping is one thing I’m working to avoid at this point. We shall see if this will be useful.

I met a lovely woman in the PT gym. It took me three tries to get her name right after she said it. “Is that Claudette?”, I asked. “No,” she said, repeating her name. “Ah, Claudine!” I said.  Again no. She finally carefully said, “Claudith - like Edith.” And then shared that she was the eighth of her mother’s children and her mother ran out of names she wanted. So she asked her cousin for a name for the baby….at which point, Claudith pauses…and he was a drunk, so that’s how I got my name. 

She’s in her late 80s and has repeated that story her whole life. Clearly a cautionary tale for taking care with the names we give our children!

And a note for all my friends. If you’re ever in The Home where restricted diets are the norm, be sure to ask for salt and pepper for your room. It’s truly the difference between edible and inedible when it comes to most foods.  

Ben was right - this place is a wellspring of content! 

Dignity Deferred

First it was David. Then there was Phil, Jose, MaryAnn, Nicole, Lisa, Presca, Jenner, and Leslie. Oh, and Deanna, Liane, Bernard, Michele, Debbie, and Kesha.

Each is a member of the extensive and still growing personal care team handling my personal - well - care for my newly re-enfeebled self when I showed up at The Home this week for recovery from surgery. 

This wasn’t the plan. I was recovering nicely from the hip replacement when suddenly my Achilles decided it needed to snap. My goal was a quick repair, and hobbling around in a boot for a few weeks before resuming normal life.

But a week ago, the ankle/foot orthopedic specialist confirmed what I had hoped Google had exaggerated. I needed surgery on that snapped Achilles tendon and that would involve six weeks of no weight-bearing on that leg, not to mention the first 10 days of leg elevation for 21 hours per day. Then there will be six more weeks with a lovely boot and crutches or cane hobbling. 

That threw us into a tail spin. We love our 120 year old home. Everything about it. In fact a couple of years ago, we’d redone the back of the house so it would be easier to transform into single level living when we would need more assistance with everyday life. 

It never occurred that we’d need that single level living now. Sure, the stairs had been a bit of a challenge as I waited for the hip replacement surgery earlier this year. But the stairs remained manageable…and just when I managed to walk up and down like a normal human - left, right, left, right - the snapped Achilles pushed me backwards.

Just imagining hopping up those higher than normal stairs? Well - the doctor assured me that he had patients that just scooted up and down stairs on their backside. That too elicited an eye roll. Great - I would be at the top of the stairs, and I still had to stand up on one leg. 

So we went to work seeking a temporary location with lots of support to make recovery possible for our aging selves. Fortunately, Minnesota is a state known for its excellence in health care - and with some extraordinary advocacy from the surgeon’s team, we left the surgery center on Monday for a transitional care unit with plenty of support to teach me hopping and scooting skills to survive the next three months.

What I wasn’t ready for was the immediate loss of autonomy when I was wheeled into a room post surgery. Apparently TCUs are one of the most heavily regulated types of facilities in this country and with attorneys being as risk averse as most are, boy, are there rules. 

I can’t even “self-administer” vitamins while here…unless I get a doctor’s order. And getting out of the bed, transferring to a chair, much less going on my own to the restroom - all require assistance to ensure no falls. Toileting has become a new action verb in my vocabulary. 

Don’t get me wrong. I get it. If I had seen myself hopping or pivoting pathetically on one leg, I’d be worried too. 

So many people - strangers all - albeit compassionate caregivers - have now seen every part of this aging body. And I mean all the parts. Even recognizing that I once was the age when my swim suits covered significantly little corporeal real estate, this involves putting personal dignity on the shelf for awhile. 

My son reminds me that this experience will provide plenty of content - and oh, he is right! Stay tuned for more notes from The Home, as I upgrade hopping and strength skills for maneuvering life in our old house as soon as possible.