Marjorie's Trip To The Rehab - The Final Chapter

At the rehab there is a constant white noise of aimless calls of “Help”, not really desperate as much as confused. Many of the patients have no idea who they are, where they are and the question that keeps popping up in my mind, the existential one that lingers each time I exit the rehab doors is, why they are.  Initially, my mom, an extremely  gregarious person, took a stab at being the rehab’s social gadabout, waving to the blank faces that stared at her as I pushed her in a wheelchair along the bustling corridors of care, greeting the empty stares with “hello, how are you today”, like a queen in her carriage greeting the adoring  crowds. On the day of New Year’s Eve I made arrangements to have my guitar teacher, Sandy DeVito, of whom she was a big fan, stop by her room to play her an hour or so of guitar tunes she was particularly fond of.  Every month on a Sunday evening the Sandy DeVito Trio played at a local Mexican restaurant and mom was a devoted follower, so his appearance in her room with guitar in hand was a treat. As he serenaded her, wringing out of his baby Taylor some of her favorite tunes, we noticed a visitor in a wheelchair hanging out in the threshold of mom’s room. As the music continued playing our uninvited but not unwanted guest wheeled herself toward Sandy, face blank but intent.

“Come in,” my mom said after the fact. “You are welcome to listen to the music.” No response. The woman wheeled herself slowly by Sandy all the way to the window sill, where there were three potted poinsettias sitting on a ledge still showing their finery post Christmas. She proceeded to feel the moisture level of the soil in each pot. Then, just as randomly as she arrived, she left slowly exiting my mom’s room, her soiled fingers perhaps a reminder of what once was, the residue of a happier time. Sandy broke up that sobering moment by reeling off one of mom’s favorite tunes, “If I Love You”, a Rogers and Hammerstein classic from the musical Carousel, which she and my dad saw in New York live with original cast when they were first married. While she has always semi-swooned upon hearing this sentimental favorite, I have noticed as of late that she questions the "If" part of the song, the subjunctive leaving too little clarity on the subject of love.

 After a few weeks negotiating the rehab routine mom started wheeling herself in the wide and onerous wheelchair down the hall to the Physical Therapy room, limiting her greetings to only the few that could respond, working her charms on all of the attendants instead as she cheerily breezed by them in her new found independence. Her upper femur had knitted nicely to the point where she could now put 50% of her weight on the left leg as she exercised daily on an institutional walker under the tutelage of the various members of the physical therapy staff. The candy-apple red walker, the one at home that she didn’t use which got her into this speck of trouble in the first place, was replaced by an unattractive one with wheels on the front and tennis ball covers on the back legs in order to keep the contraption well under foot. A runaway walker would not do for an old gal with an upper femur still healing and a set of staples running down her left flank from hip to knee.  She was trained to walk in a very prescribed way: walker slides ahead, left foot moves forward, upper body holds 50% of left foot’s weight as right foot slips ahead and takes full weight as it meets its mate. At first this new walking gait was too much strain on her upper body and the length of her walks were very limited, interrupted by constant breaks in the wheelchair that was dragged behind her by the PT. The man with the crooked hip, whose existence seemed to consist of walking around the circular corridor for several hours each day, would lap her several times around the perimeter of the corridor and upon seeing him she would lift herself out of the wheelchair and get back into her new walking pattern, determined to be amazing at the task at hand. The man with the crooked hip never noticed. The daily outings with the PT crew exhausted her as they peppered into her workouts thera-band upper body work and stationary cycling in addition to daily walking excursions that expanded ever further down the corridor. By the time she was escorted back to her room she was spent and barely able to stay awake for her lunch, although she will never fess up to being tired, no doubt a sign of inferior physical stamina. And so it went, the daily routine of PT treatment punctuated by long shuffling strolls down the corridor twice a day, a bath every other day, a visit from Millie, the stalwart dog every morning in which institutional breakfast bacon bits were saved for her as a treat, crossword puzzles when I came to visit, heavy gummy bear consumption (her favorite candy) throughout her tenure, Australian Open Tennis on the tube, which frequently went on the blink before a match was completed, a daily 4 p.m. phone call from a 97-year old gent she called a phone friend, and the constant comings and goings of the ever bustling and cheerful staff. This went on for a few weeks until she was given the green light to put full weight on the left leg, just about six weeks after the mishap in the closet.

The adventure at the rehab is now in its waning few days and although mom is excited at the prospect of returning home in a week’s time, the exuberance partners with a bit of trepidation. She wonders if things will be as they were before or will she be more needy and feel less confident, more vulnerable. All questions that anyone might have following a serious physical trauma but when that anyone is someone who is 95 (she also anointed her 95^th year at the rehab) it becomes weightier.  This also means that my days visiting the rehab will be coming to a close. But, one thing is certain. The adventure continues.