Eviction

Rehab finally began on 20 January.  It was a Wednesday.  This was because the doctor would make her rounds on a Tuesday morning and I had to get the OK from her to begin and then there was the issue that I’d not actually been scheduled for any physio or OT time so had to wait another day.

In preparation for this, however, I’d been evicted.  Evicted from the room I’d called home for three months.  Evicted from the room I’d spent Christmas, my birthday and New Year from.  I was angry and mad about the move.  I was used to my own room, my own company, my own space.  But as I’ve said before, with the exception of a few of the nurses who’d made a point of spending time to get to know me, I didn’t know anyone.  There’d been walls in the way.  I’d not met any of the other patients and I just about knew the names of most of the staff but little else.  With hindsight the move was the best thing for me, but at the time I liked and wanted my own little cocoon back.

The odd thing about the move was that it was like déjà vu.  I’d spent six months in a hospital ward with three beds next to the nursing station with what were usually older, very sick men.  Now I’d been moved out of my room into a ward with three beds next to the nursing station with two older, very sick men.  One was a gentleman, the other was an ogre. 

In the months that followed, I got to know some really, really lovely people.  People who’d hovered around me for months but I’d never gotten to know.  People who have allowed me to get to the point I am now and people who I am most thankful to.