I’ve spent the last week of my life living in a tiny room, smaller than the storage unit I rent to store old furniture in. It’s awkward shaped, small and cramped, jammed with a bad and a reclining chair, a small table, a built-in writing desk surface and shelves in a wall, and a huge door, big enough to push the hospital bed through. the bathroom is about 1/10th of the size of ours back home, and the shower is so small, a big burly guy wouldn’t even be able to turn around in there.
The toilet is really low to the ground, making standing up from it hard, and every time I sit down, I lean back too far and hit my head against the metal pipes behind it. The room is tidy but it’s not really even super clean, with water stains on the bed lighting above my head, and what appears to be liquid drips on the door that somehow never get cleaned.
They feed me, three times per day, but the food really isn’t much to speak of. They do a lot of carbs, almost no greens or fresh veggies at all. Lots of starch and sugar, two things I don’t allow myself to eat at all at home.
I have only seen my children for a few minutes a couple of days while I’ve been in here, and other than that, I’ve written to them on IM and texted on the phone and talked on the phone too. But I haven’t gotten to interact with them, talk to them, spend time with them.
I miss my bed. I miss my Roku. More than anything at all, I miss my dog, so very much. I’ve never gone this long without seeing him. My son says he just lays at the front door all day, waiting for us to come home. Tomorrow, he leaves, and that will leave the dog alone at home most of the time. Jake doesn’t do alone well. He’ll miss us so much.
I know, this is typical of a hospital stay. But it feels like prison to me. Time passes on a completely different scale when you’re in here. I’m feeling well enough to know just how bad being in here is. I have caught myself wishing I could feel worse, so I’d be able to sleep through most of the stay. Instead, I just sit here and stare out the window and flip through the limited television channels. I try to get on the computer, but I can’t concentrate on a lot. I got some work done the first few days, but now, it’s like everything is distracting me.
I don’t know why I’m not healing. I don’t know why it’s not getting much better, much faster. I don’t understand. I just know that I want to go home.
I started thinking about the law of attraction, and how we attract what we focus on the most. I thought I was focusing on going home, but the truth is, I’ve been putting all my energy into what I don’t have–I’m putting my energy into “I’m not at home”. So I’m trying to hard this morning, now that I’ve noticed this, into feeling gratitude for my home, for my pets, for my kids, for my bed… visualizing myself being home, happy, healthy.
This is my face though. The cellulitis on my leg has left the skin integrity of my leg messed up. It’s not horrible, but it’s not exactly pretty either. If you didn’t know it was there, you might not notice it, but I can wear hose, pants, long dresses, and no one but me and those privileged to share my bare legs can even tell. This infection, though, is on my face.
You know, my face.
Stop for a moment. Would you want a big scar, red skin that looks like an orange peel, on your face, for all time?
I know that part of what they are trying to do is to make sure they save my life. After all, the infection is all the way around the eye, but fortunately, yet, not in it. The eye is a direct corridor to the brain, That could mean death–or worse. Oh, yes, there is worse than death. Stroke, loss of motor function, brain damage and more… so yeah. I get it. But even beyond saving my life, this is saving my face too.
I spent all last night thinking about maybe we could go out somewhere to eat on the way home, something, anything to celebrate getting out of here. I saw myself at the restaurant, eating, laughing with my family. That can still happen, right? Please?
So this morning, positive, upbeat, motivated energy for getting out of here and going home today… but I want it to be a good thing that we’re going home, not something that we do just because I can’t stand being here, but then I have to come back here later anyway. I don’t want to come back. I want to go home and it be a good thing.
For now, I have to go pee and then get weighed, and then my morning meds, and then maybe stare out the window and see if I can see a hurricane brewing in the Gulf of Mexico from my window.
Love you all…
Love and stuff,
Update: I’m stuck here another day.