AND NOW...CS4

A bit of drama yesterday afternoon here at the Recovery Hotel.

I was sitting on the bed talking on the phone and had just opened the drapes to get a little light in when a man popped up, started to try to get the windows open, and then kinda crept away...with his pants off. Cheryl was on her phone in the living area, so when he crossed in front of that window, she hollered bloody murder and took off running down the hallway to get help from the front desk.

I, of course, remained totally calm and gathered myself together, got my scooter/walker, donned proper footwear, and carefully made my way to the front desk as well.

OK.

So maybe that wasn't quite accurate. I broke out into a cold sweat of panic, stood up to get the hell out of there, and saw an entire encampment of belongings under the big bushes in front of the window...about a foot and a half from where I had been sleeping for the last almost month.

And then I started bawling and snotting all over my Woman Within sleep shirt, because I realized just how freaking vulnerable and helpless I've been, and that the strong, capable, fearless, feisty woman that would have hollered at the guy to "Pull those britches up, young man!" was gone, and that the current version of Yours Truly is barely able to bathe herself....let alone fight off an intruder.

Long story short...after a few minutes of drama and several other concerned guests gathering in the parking lot, the manager took one look at my face and said "How about we get you into a different room?" and three hours later, Cheryl had managed to move the seven cartloads of crap out of the old room and into the new room.

The old room was just that. Old. And in pretty lousy repair. And pretty much the bain of my existence since I stepped foot into the darn thing. I made such a fuss about it and flipped my wig over it so many times, that I never took into account that poor Rich had selected it because he probably thought I would appreciate an accessible bathroom in which I could sit in a shower to wash my hair, or the fact that it was on the first floor and a nice simple walk down a hall to the lobby, or....

But no.

I had to act like a bitchy little spoiled princess who thought he was just too darn lazy to find a "perfect place for me to recover". I had visions of a high floor view with newspapers and breakfast delivered to the door and a Starbucks in the lobby. (That would have been a different Marriott entirely, and probably would have blown the budget in a week and a half, whereas this property houses lots of IU patients and their families and is .8 miles from the hospital entrance).

Anywhoose. 

The new room is simply perfect. Third floor, so no more worries about uninvited roommates, completely renovated and clean and functional, and they even went out and bought a hand-held shower head and installed it for me this morning so I can still sit on the side of the tub to wash my hair. (This is not an accessible room).

I am just so very happy and peaceful now that I had the best night's sleep since being out of the hospital, and I went to bed grateful that everything is just working out the way it's supposed to when I get the heck out of the way and surrender my incessant need to be the boss of everything.

Today has already been a good day. I had an excellent sink bath, got dressed INCLUDING a bra, put on a little eye makeup, and went for steroids. Now we're resting a bit, and then I am going to get my hair cut downtown by a guy named Tim Sizemore, who is a high school buddy of one of my clinic nurses who called in a favor for me! (If he is anywhere near as handsome as his pictures on the internets, I might pull something batting my eyelashes at him, so if you would, please say an extra prayer that I don't make a complete foolish jackass of myself right there in front of Cheryl and everybody!)

Milestones, Dearies! We're celebrating them like crazy around here!

Keep those happy thoughts for tomorrow! I'll update you as soon as I can on whether or not we've turned this little rejection wagon around!