I thought that living in a small nursing home in a small town would be slow-paced and relaxing, but I was wrong. Every day is filled with something—mostly physical therapy.
Physical therapy is pretty intense. When the therapist was away, I had a chance to snoop in his notes on the desk. Being told one is doing “really well” is not enough assurance for me. Too vague. It was gratifying to see that after seven sessions, I am already exceeding the standards for eleven weeks.
The rewards of doing twenty-five of something when the therapist tells one to do fifteen, or when one uses eighteen-pound weights rather than nine.
I hope to stand in front of the commode and let loose with the bladder by the Fourth of July, but that still looks overambitious.
(Fortunately I can sit on the commode and do that business unassisted.)
My right leg is the problem; the bones in the joint audibly grind against each other. Replacing the joints is something that could have been done, but I was in hospice fated to die anyway, so nothing was done. Ditto for the hernia and the near-blind left eye.
It’s too late now to do anything, so I just soldier on, and get by reasonably well.
I hope everybody else is doing well.
