Rehab Diaries: Seven Days, Countless Reps, and One Very Opinionated Knee

When we spoke last, I had just finished recounting my harrowing expedition through the land of Problematic Kneeland. A reasonable person might assume the adventure ended there.

A reasonable person, however, has clearly never dealt with the Universe.

The Universe, as I have mentioned before, is a fickle bitch. And apparently it had decided my story needed a sequel: Rehab: The Director’s Cut.

Now, my first exposure to the word “rehab” had nothing to do with celebrities or substance abuse. It happened years ago when my dad fell and ended up in what everyone vaguely referred to as rehab. I asked Mom what that meant. She explained it as a place where people go after the hospital so they can be watched closely while professionals help them get back on thei qr feet.

Which sounded reasonable.

Then I visited.

What I saw looked less like a recovery center and more like a dimly lit waiting room for the afterlife. People were parked in wheelchairs along the hallway like unused shopping carts. The air smelled like sadness, urine and antiseptic.

So, when the doctor at Swedish casually mentioned they were sending me to rehab for a week, I was…less than enthusiastic. I wanted to be home. But home is where stairs were and I wasn’t ready for stairs.

Getting discharged from a hospital, by the way, is an experience somewhat akin to trying to put a straightjacket on yourself. Endless forms. Endless signatures. Endless waiting.

Later I would learn that getting out of rehab is like trying to remove that same straightjacket while wearing oven mitts.

My case manager arrived with four rehab options. All four had one star.

ONE.

STAR.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if a toaster gets one star, I don’t buy it. Yet here I was selecting a place to live for a week based on Yelp reviews that strongly suggested tetanus shots and emotional trauma were in my future.

There was a fifth facility with three stars, but they didn’t have any beds available. Apparently, all the other unlucky souls had the same idea.

I quickly scanned the four remaining options, looked at which one was closest to Blueberry’s house, and picked one at random.

Pine Ridge Post Acute.

Would it be okay?

Would I survive?

Only one way to find out.

The case manager called what they charmingly refer to as a “Cabulance.” Think Uber, but with straps and medical liability waivers.

It took forever to arrive. I was so ready to leave the hospital that I didn’t stop to consider whether I was escaping the frying pan only to swan dive into the deep fryer.

The reason I couldn’t just go home was simple: I live in a townhouse. Townhouses contain stairs. And at that moment in my knee’s recovery timeline, stairs might as well have been Mount Everest. My knee couldn’t bend enough to step up six inches, and even if it could, the strength required to actually lift my body was currently theoretical.

So, rehab it was. The case manager estimated seven days. Possibly ten. Over my dead body was I staying ten days. In my mind I was shooting for four. This was…optimistic.

The cabulance ride itself lasted approximately two blocks and cost $60. For a distance I could have crawled in a reasonably determined afternoon. The driver, however, was worth every penny.

She was a petite woman from Jamaica who looked about as threatening as a kindergarten teacher. I briefly wondered how she planned to push my wheelchair. Turns out she pushed it like she was training for the Olympic Powerlifting Team. She maneuvered that chair, lifted it into the van, strapped everything down, and secured me with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.

While she worked, she chatted cheerfully. “How old are you again?” she asked.

“Fifty-seven,” I said. She grinned.

“I turn sixty-nine in two days!”

I stared at her. There was absolutely no universe in which this woman was sixty-nine. Then I noticed she had a boot on her foot.

“Oh no,” I said. “Did you fall?”

“Yes,” she said.

Pause.

“While I was out jogging.”

Jogging.

I was suddenly very aware that my own injury had occurred while attempting something far less athletic: peeing. I needed a better story.

We arrived at Pine Ridge and I was whisked to Room 303B. As the sliding doors opened, I braced myself for the depressing nursing home of my childhood memories.

Instead, I rolled into a bright, warm entry space filled with light. And—most importantly—no smell. Already this place was exceeding expectations.

The rooms were set up like little suites: two separate bedrooms connected by a shared bathroom. I was wheeled into my side, deposited on the bed, and then immediately surrounded by a parade of nurses, CNAs, and assorted healthcare professionals introducing themselves and checking things.

The first nurse was Dieter, who was friendly, efficient, and got me fully “onboarded.” Vitals, weight, explanations about the facility, and—most importantly—ordering me food.

(We will discuss the food later. It deserves its own chapter.)

That Friday afternoon I was mostly left alone. The last few days had been overwhelming, and once the quiet settled in I simply lay back, closed my eyes, and tried not to cry.

That’s when I heard a faint tap tap tap. I opened my eyes. Directly in front of me sat a tiny, frail woman in a wheelchair with bright blue eyes, staring at me.

“You new?” she asked.

Now, I could have said something snarky like “Nope, just redecorating.” But I behaved. I answered, “Yes.”

She introduced herself as Ida. Ida was ninety-eight. She informed me she had been there three years and was sick of the place. Later I would learn she meant three separate stays over three years—not a continuous sentence—but at the time I wondered if I had accidentally checked into Alcatraz.

Her son was visiting the next day, she said, and she planned to demand her freedom. Then she asked if my name was on the door. Not what my name was, just whether it was on the door. She rolled over to check, came back triumphantly, and announced that yes, my name was on the door.

Then she asked my name.

I quickly realized Ida was quite deaf. I’d start explaining something and she’d interrupt with a completely different question. Eventually I just surrendered and followed her conversational lead. She was delightful. If I had to have a rehab roommate, Ida was an excellent choice.

Later that afternoon, I heard a familiar commotion coming down the hallway. That would be Blueberry and Princess Lori. They arrived with clothing, essentials, and—more importantly—pizza.

Heroes. Absolute heroes.

But the real surprise came next. They looked like two cats who had just swallowed the entire canary population.

“What did you do?” I asked. Blueberry grinned. Turns out the two of them had spent the day at my house assembling a new shelf for the scrapbook room, cleaning, and doing laundry.

I was floored. And incredibly lucky to have friends like that.

The rest of the evening dissolved into giggling, guffawing, and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt. Those two together are dangerously funny, and for a while everything felt normal again.

Eventually they left, and I fell asleep almost instantly.

At 4 a.m. The lights came on. Vitals. Blood draw.

Hospitals and rehab facilities believe the human body functions best when startled awake in the middle of the night. But I fell back asleep quickly.

Later that morning PT and OT—Hannah and Nathan—arrived to assess me. They walked me down the hall as far as I could manage and explained what the coming week would look like.

They also gave me permission to walk to the bathroom by myself. It felt like receiving a gold star in kindergarten. But I’ll take it.

Saturday’s highlight was lunch with my friend France, followed by more visiting with Blueberry. At the time I hadn’t yet realized how incredibly valuable outside food would become.

Then the power went out. As soon as the power went out, the facility came a live with machine beeps going off and the staff hustling into action.  The generator quickly kicked on the staff confirmed the rooms that required oxygen were, in fact, getting oxygen and had lights. My room did not qualify. I sat in soft darkness being lit only by the window in my room.

However, they did hand out old-school call buttons.

Within seconds the hallway sounded like a casino jackpot floor.

Ding.

Ding.

DING DING DING.

Residents were absolutely going to town with those things. I’ll admit… I giggled.

Sunday was blissfully uneventful. PT exercises, bland food, and far too much true crime television.

Monday, however, was Social Interaction Olympics. People streamed in and out of my room all day: cognitive tests, surveys, nurses, therapists, activity directors, doctors, wound care specialists. For an introvert, this was exhausting.

Then PT returned and absolutely kicked my butt—in a good way. I walked all the way to the exercise room. Did stairs.

STAIRS!

Then walked back.

It may not sound like much, but getting to that room was roughly the length of a football field and stairs were my ticket home.

Later OT decided my arms needed strengthening because I had casually mentioned the walker—now nicknamed Johnny Walker—was making them tired.

Huge mistake. Rubber arms followed.

By the end of Monday, I had worked five hours remotely, exercised, socialized beyond my introvert limits, and was ready to collapse. I was hoping—optimistically—for a Wednesday release. Reality had other plans.

Wednesday afternoon the social worker, Nicole, arrived with another woman who immediately radiated Attitude. I nicknamed her Mrs. Attitude.

Nicole explained that paperwork had to be filed to arrange home nursing care, which would take about two days.

Fine.

But Mrs. Attitude insisted my wound care had to be done daily. I corrected her. My wound specialist had specifically said every other day.

She pushed back. I pushed harder.  At this point I know my wound better than anyone, and the wound care I had received there so far had been…let’s call it uninspired.

The second obstacle was my INR blood test, which couldn’t be redone until Friday due to “orders.”

Red tape. I suggested alternatives. She refused. Eventually I gave up arguing, swallowed the bitter pill of disappointment

Nicole promised I’d be out by 10 a.m. Friday.

So I accepted my fate.

The silver lining? It was book club night and the gang was coming to me—with pizza.

Thursday brought the mysterious wound care “doctor,” whom I had never seen before. He looked at my wound for about thirty seconds and declared it fine before disappearing.

Mrs. Attitude then wrapped it…incorrectly. If that set my healing back, someone was going to hear about it.

Finally, Friday arrived. It also started snowing. Because of course it did.

Nicole stopped by at nine with good news: I was cleared to leave.

Blueberry arrived shortly after ten. I signed the paperwork. And we walked out the front door.

For a brief moment I considered shouting something triumphant and slightly obscene toward the building.

But honestly? Aside from questionable food and two questionable staff members, they had taken good care of me.

Instead, we went to breakfast.

Real food. Real coffee.

(I hadn’t had coffee in two weeks. Two. Weeks.)

And finally, I went home.

Linus greeted me at the door, scolded me appropriately for my absence, and within minutes it felt like the last two weeks had never happened.

As Dorothy wisely said:

There’s no place like home.