Yesterday I had my steering meeting, the meeting in which the plan for my care is decided. Everyone who is going to be involved in any part of therapy is there, along with nurses, social workers, case managers, doctors, etc. They all agree on what needs to be done for me. Finally they give me my planned release date: This Thursday, April 29.
Soon my recent experiences with hospitals will be over. Not that all of it has been bad; there were a slew of amazing nurses and aids, a couple of fun trips, and some fun activities. Yet on the whole I cannot call my experience a positive one, just a necessary one. I'll still be dealing with them in some form for quite a while (out-patient rehab), but I hope not to see the inside of one as anything but a visitor again for a long time.
I go back to my Aunt and Uncle's place, north of Baltimore. I look forward to being able to set my own schedule, make my own plans, and above all having two seconds of privacy for once (you just never really get a sense of privacy with people always opening and shutting your door, coming to check on you). I was only at my aunt and uncle's for a week, but I already felt like I had already gotten into the rhythm of the house. Part of me is reluctant to call this going home, which I've reserved for my trip back to Colorado in the fall. But it's filled with people who love me, running and giggling kids, food out the wazoo, and a room filled with crap that is distinctly mine. Since I can't go home yet, this is the best replacement I could have found.
My homecoming is bittersweet. I left happy and strong, and I come home weak and sobered. I come back with an understanding that my strength is fragile; I need to appreciate my going back even more. The big difference is I'm here to stay this time.