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| Barb Polan Barb's Recovery |
Given the psychological toll having a stroke has had on me, I have to name one source as the worst: waiting.
The first torturous wait was to be released from the rehab hospital. I was admitted Nov. 14, after two days of hospitalization; at the time, no one would give me any projected release date. I asked, and I asked, but every answer to, “When will I be able to go home?” was evasion. One of the favorites was, “We’ll see.”
You know the Jack Johnson song that goes: “It seems to me that 'maybe' - It pretty much always means 'no'.”
Well, “we’ll see” pretty much always means, “I can’t tell you.” But did that mean “I don’t know” or “It depends”? If it meant “It depends,” I wanted to know what it depended on. Was a clock ticking, some minimum time I had to remain captive? Were there activities I needed to be able to do? With a tiny one-size-fits-all ankle brace and a cane, I could walk my first day there; after a few sessions struggling into my clothes, I could get dressed; with help, I could transfer myself from bed to wheelchair and wheelchair to toilet. And back again. What more did I need to be able to do in order to go home? No one could/would tell me.
Every day in rehab – usually at night – I anguished over when I’d be back home again. In fact, I felt more homesick than I’ve ever felt.
I love being home, especially home with my family there. Our kids were both living in New York when I was struck, so I was used to living without having them around. They materialized beside my bed my first day in Mass General. Immediately after Tom called them, our son, living on Long Island, picked up our daughter at college in Manhattan and then drove them to see me. They didn’t stay in Boston long, though, so the home I was missing consisted of Tom and me with our quiet, simple life in Gloucester, the prettiest place on Earth.
My first two weeks in rehab, I expected to be released before Thanksgiving – because, you know what? – I was NOT spending my family Thanksgiving in the effing hospital. I wasn’t. Eventually my doctor compromised and said I could be released for the day.
At the time, I was so grateful that I didn’t understand how pathetic that was – there was, in fact, no reason to not just let me stay home. But, no, I had to go back – back to Limbo, not knowing when I would go home permanently.
After Thanksgiving, the “we’ll see” answer changed to “certainly by Christmas.” No shit.
That’s when I started getting lectures about not “wandering” or being “impulsive.” True, I could see the train station out my room’s windows, could watch the commuter rail trains arrive and depart – some from Gloucester, but more importantly, some TO Gloucester. But did they really expect me to make a run for it? Was it because I was not considered a compliant patient? Or was it because I asked be released five MILLION times before it was determined I could leave Dec. 14? After all, some people just get worn down.
In the four years since my return home, I’ve been waiting, waiting, for my recalcitrant half to come to its senses. Do you know how long it is to wake up every morning for four years hopeful that, after all the boring therapy work you have done, today would be the day you could open your hand to do something useful?
I once took a Bible study class with a lecturer who told us to never pray for patience – because the only way to develop patience is to wait a REALLY long time for something you REALLY want.
Nota Bene: If I find out that any of you or my so-called friends have ever prayed for ME to have patience, that’s it – our friendship is over. Seriously, I’ve got patience covered – I really don’t need any more.
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