Twenty-four hours at home and I can assure you, it was the right decision to leave the rehab centre.
I mean, it served its purpose. I needed to be there, initially.
But by Saturday or Sunday, I clearly needed to be home more.
The "living arrangements" leave much to be desired in the hospital setting and I am simply not cut out for sharing my quarters with strangers. Especially strangers who are totally inconsiderate of the fact that they are sharing tight quarters with someone else in less than ideal circumstances. One simply has to accept that one is not at home and one must therefore take others into consideration.
Like, perhaps flushing the toilet one shares with another patient.
Like allowing the other patient at least half the room for movement of equipment.
Like maybe making some effort to cover one's butt (literally) when walking about in those horrific hospital gowns (everyone knows they don't cover anything!).
Like using the supplied headphones when watching television -- goes without saying in a hospital, I think.
Like, like, like ...
I could go on. But I think you get my point.
My roommate was less than polite. Which added tremendously to my stress level.
The sooner I got out of there the better.
I needed to get out of there to get some rest. Peace and quiet.
Now that I'm home, we're settling into the routine that will be ours for the next several weeks as I learn that the limitations put on my movement will severely restrict me.
I knew I had to accept this.
And I knew I wouldn't like it.
But believe me, it is so much better than where I was.
This is like heaven!