From one hospital, to another. My recovery continued with a few weeks at an inpatient neuro-rehabilition center.
“Pain makes you stronger. Fear makes you braver.”
Last night my cousin says to me hes read my blog and is surprised I’m “actually a pretty good writer” . That’s like when someone says “You’re way prettier in person” and you think WTF does that even mean? It’s sort of a compliment, but sort of an insult. So are my pictures really ugly? But despite these individual’s awkwardly underdeveloped social skills, I truly believe most times they mean it as a compliment.
Before things get awkward at the next Pizza Monday, let me explain that Christopher, you do not have awkwardly underdeveloped social skills, you just really suck at giving compliments. I still love you and I know what you were really trying to say is that I’m awesome and world’s best writer/cousin.
Just to specify: Christopher is my younger cousin that thinks I’m “actually a pretty good writer”, and “Pizza Monday” is this big tradition we have had for over 10 years (wow, I feel old. Sidenote: I am not). I am 1 of 15 cousins on my mother’s side so as we all got older and were around less, my grandmother started hosting Pizza Mondays to make sure we all still keep in touch and see each other often. So every Monday, we go to my grandmas, eat pizza, and catch up. It’s honestly amazing, everyone loves pizza. And since it’s Grandma’s house, there is usually dessert too.
ANYWAYS I’ll tell you about my amazing family and support system some other time, this post is about the inpatient rehab and start of my recovery process. I do not use the term “process” lightly, this shit is really a process.
When I got to the rehabilitation hospital, I luckily landed my own room (most had 2 beds, but the only bed they had open at the time of my admittance was a single bed in a large room).
I did not go away to college, but I imagined it was something like a dorm. Only instead of being surrounded by young and fun college kids, I was surrounded by 95% stroke survivors (95% over 70 years old). Instead of shouting random shit because they were drunk, they were shouting random shit because they had dementia. So first I recover on a children’s cancer floor, then I recover on an old people with brain injury floor. Things went from pediatric to geriatric real quick. I remember thinking “for the love of all that is holy, can I just see some people my age?" Then I remember most people my age are in their prime living their best life, not making a lifelong friend in a neuro-rehabilitation center. Sucks for both of us - sucks for me for obvious reasons, sucks for them because they’re missing out on a really cool lifelong friend.
I don’t remember much about my transfer to the rehab, I actually don’t remember much of my first week there. But I do remember that everything in my room was still labeled with the previous patients name- Fern. “Fern’s Remote”, “Fern’s TV”, “Fern’s tray table”. This gives you an idea of how old everyone there was… who the hell under 85 years old is named FERN? No offense to people named Fern... it’s a beautiful plant (so is a rose bush). Also everyone was so old they needed all their shit labeled. I’d imagined Fern forgetting where the TV was and then seeing the label “Fern’s TV” and being like “There it is! Thank God they labeled it”. I guess they did not have time to remove the labels since the neuro-center was completely full and in true Amy Winehouse fashion, I was on my way to rehab. Okay, they are totally different types of rehabs, but that did not stop me from singing that song the whole week. I have a theory that Fern died in that room. If she did, RIP. If she didn’t... no she did.
I also remember learning the social worker’s office was right down the hall, so I would cry in complete silence out of fear she’d hear me and prescribe me anti-depressents. I hadn’t seen my son in 3 weeks at this point, I was definitely a little depressed but never so much that I needed that pharmaceutical junk. I have an addictive personality and there is no time to add a pit-stop at withdrawal on my road to recovery. I wanted out of all hospitals as fast as possible, so I did not cry in front of doctors, I did not speak to neuropsychologists, and I worked my ass off in my therapies.
My therapists Tina, Letha, and Ashley were so amazing and patient and helpful. I truly admired them. I’ll write a whole separate blog about them one day - both my inpatient and outpatient therapists. I know you guys don’t really care but I have a lot more to say about them and my appreciation for them. Physical, Speech and Occupational therapists are the shit in case you didn’t know.
Before I met Tina, I talked like Sloth from The Goonies “HEY YOU GUYYSSS!!”, except worse. My speech was so bad nobody could understand even those three words upon my admittance.
Before I met Letha, I couldn’t even put one foot in front of the other.
And before I met Ashley (and Lisa), I couldn’t even see.
Despite the amazing therapies this rehab provided, they did not provide a pool for my strongly desired AquaTherapy. I wanted to do that so bad, I really thought it would help my mobility. I couldn’t even sit up on my own at that point so I probably would’ve drowned, but that’s besides the point. I also thought/think a beach will really help my mobility because I can try to walk on the sand, and if I fall it won’t hurt.
An activity the rehab did provide was a relaxation group - which I signed up for because I really needed to just chill the fuck out. Have you ever tried to meditate and relax with an oxygen tank in the room louder than your thoughts? I couldn’t focus on my breath because I was so concerned the lady with the oxygen tank was going to stop breathing. Berta, I know you need that oxygen tank and all but can you not? What I’m getting at here is there was no chance of meditating and relaxing in an environment like this. I remember the instructor saying - in a female Morgan Freeman voice - “Close your eyes (I’m that person that always peeks when everyone else closes their eyes). Now take yourself to where you were happiest in life. Where were you? What were you doing? Now go there, and be that person when you wake up. Find your happiest-self and be that”. I remember thinking “My happiest self would never be in this room or rehab, so as soon as I wake up my happiest self will run back to my happiest moment which sure as shit isn’t here”. Long story short, for me that relaxation group was just about as relaxing as trying to take a nap when they are doing construction right outside your window.
The worst part of my whole outpatient experience was going to sleep able to smile, and waking up with my face paralyzed and eye stuck in. I was unable to even make a pucker meaning I couldn’t kiss my son when I did see him. Luckily, half of my facial movements came back. I can now pucker my lips. But as for the rest? I’m still waiting for it to get better - it was so sudden, scary, and worst of all - unexplained.
The Pizza Monday Crew.