Back to realityIf I had more energy, I'd write about the stages of coming back home after a wonderful vacation. I'd sprinkle in a few stages of grief, a few stages of denial, of comparing my real life with the fantasy of being someone who would actually deserve to stay in such wonderful hotels and be treated like a queen...
But when you come home to a house where the cleaning lady didn't come like she was supposed to, it's like the five cats threw a party and invited 892 of their furriest friends to shed all over. And I do mean all over. How the heck did we get fur flurries in our bedroom closet, when they were shut out of the bedroom?
We ended up buying the Transformer-mobile. I thought we paid a bit too much for a used wheelchair, but not when we checked online for the new price. Wowsers.
The trouble? It doesn't fit through the bathroom or bedroom door... Plan B (b as in bathroom? groan...) is the crutches.
I relied on the crutches a bit too much yesterday, what with the cleaning and thinking I could take care of the house, and overtaxed myself. I took a painkiller for the first time in a full week. (I was going through the mail and found the description of what they did during the operation, and it was incredibly sobering. I hurt a LOT more after reading that, and instantly resolved to take better care and not do that again.)
Tomorrow, we check the thrift stores for a "transport" wheelchair, that will get through doors. And a bunch of other stuff, like seeing how soon I can see my regular doctor, turning in the disability papers, etc.
I admit, I'm in a funk and may not get pictures mounted very soon. Do nag. This is the kind of mood where I need reassurance, that my strange version of normal is appreciated by my friends and colleagues.