MGH is where I got fixed, but home is where I'll heal. And let me be clear: it's great to finally be home.
But based on the first 24 hours of home rehab, I'm reminded of the things that the hospital does get right.
First, the beds. No heavenly mattresses, pillowtops, memory foam, or other nifty comfort features. The mattresses are encased in utilitarian, sweat-inducing plastic. But they are dead easy to get into and out of -- and if you need help, there are plenty of people around who understand that it's about leverage not force.
Second, the outfits. OK, no fashion awards here, but everything's ridiculously loose -- when I finally graduated to pants, they must have been size 60 -- so they offer easy access when nature calls.
And nature was calling pretty regularly last night -- in an effort, I think, to make up for the little white lie we told the cardiologist about how much fluid I'd still retained. Every 90 min or so, starting around 10, I had to get up, waddle down to the toilet, wiggle out of my PJ bottoms and underwear, and execute a series of mighty pisses -- in volumes I hadn't delivered in 35 years. It was weirdly comforting to know that I was still capable of pissing like that. But it made for a painful night for me and an exhausting one for Lori, who got out of bed to accompany me on these trips down memory lane. By the time I got back into bed, my chest would be throbbing and my whole body wracked with shudders until I could settle things down and get back to sleep. On the other hand, when morning finally arrived, I'd lost about six pounds of fluid (mostly urine but also a lot of sweat), and I'm now within spitting distance of my pre-op weight.
So I guess I have to say that the first night home was a bit of a challenge. Today, I vowed to pace myself better. Yesterday, I insisted on going for a walk outside as soon as we got home from the hospital. Big mistake; I barely made it back. Today, I've confined myself to laps of the living room. And I spent a lot of time plopped in the recliner in the family room watching back episodes of
Weeds -- not intellectually uplifting stuff, but probably precisely the level of activity and challenge I needed today. It's clear to me now -- though I've been told it over and over -- that understanding your limitations and staying just below them is the best way to heal. Sometimes, you have to overdo it to discover those limitations. But then you've got to be able to recognize what happened and dial it back. Thankfully, I can usually do that -- and when I can't, Lori steps in.
That's enough heavy homespun philosophy for now. On the docket in the coming days: my wild Percocet dreams and the Jackson Pollock knockoff that is now my body.
Thanks for reading this far.
