After a week-long hospital stay, I was released to rehabilitate at what we came to call “The CRC” or “Cross Rehabilitation Center,” –my daughter Heidi’s home, where I would spend the next five weeks.

I couldn’t have wished for a better place to recover.  

Their family lives in a beautiful two-story house with plenty of room for me and all the equipment I would need. I settled in on the first floor. The living room opens on one side into the kitchen and on the other to a den and a bathroom.

Her husband Paul and son Ryland had brought my bed from my house and put it in the den. Another longtime friend, DD, who had been through her own experience with surgery and therapy, loaned us a raised toilet seat, and shower chair. Heidi bought toilet safety rails and handheld shower head.

The first night, after a quiet birthday dinner, Heidi and I headed to the bathroom to accomplish the first shower I would enjoy since the injury a week before.  

She arranged everything we needed (including my own hypoallergenic soap and shampoo from my house), turned on the hot water; and somehow, I backed in, braced on the walker, and eased down onto the shower seat. Rolling up her sleeves, and her pants’ cuffs, she got in with me, and I relished the hot water, soap, and shampoo.

I got out of the shower, and since it was February, I was cold and shivering. Heidi dried me off as quickly as possible and helped me put on clean pajamas… a process which was a lot like getting a toddler ready for bed. Braced against the bathroom sink, I hunched over the walker, and lifted one arm, one leg, etc.  

We went into the den next door, and I sat on the edge of my bed while Heidi dried my hair. This was the first of our attempts at humor. She—on purpose—made my hair unusually “fluffy.” She did this more than once over the course of the following weeks. Then we worked (and I do mean “worked”) to get the compression socks on, and then the gripper socks.

And then, it was time for bed. Heidi and Ryland (16) and Ella (13) propped up pillows to help me into a semi-sitting position and placed the “hip abduction” pillow (the A-frame shaped foam) between my legs, as we had been instructed by the nurses at the hospital.

But this did not work. The pillows began to slide, and so did I, and that was when the second muscle spasm hit with full force.

The pain was already intensifying, when I said, “This isn’t going to work,” and they worked to extricate me and help me up. While I was coming unraveled, we all trooped into the living room, and I sank down onto their leather sectional sofa and scooted into the corner.

Then I came utterly undone. The pain was excruciating. I was sobbing uncontrollably, praying, “Dear God in Heaven…” Heidi ran for the icepack, and muscle relaxers. Paul stood behind me and pulled me up into as much of a sitting position as possible, putting pillows behind me in the corner of the couch.

They got a heavy blanket on me, and eventually, as I wriggled my legs around, trying to get into any position to alleviate the pain, gradually…the spasm began to ease, and with a bolster under my knees, and the lamp on, Paul and the kids went upstairs to bed, and Heidi went to sleep in my bed in the den.

That was the first step on our continuing learning curve.

After that, we knew what to do. I simply could not lie down flat or any approximation of that position.

Please note the phrase “after that,” which will become the operative phrase going forward. We learned as we went, the learning curve growing ever steeper.  

The next day, I told Heidi we would have to buy a recliner. I should have known this from the beginning. When I broke my arm way back in the last century, I slept in a recliner for weeks to keep my arm at the proper angle.

Heidi found the perfect chair at Woodchuck’s and went immediately after it. With the back removed, the chair fit into her Highlander, so we didn’t even wait for delivery, and Paul reassembled it when he got home from work.

A marvelous chair—a full-fledged lift chair—with a her, adjustable headrest, adjustable footrest, lumbar support. It took me a while to learn the NASA-esque remote control, but eventually I figured out which buttons to push. Snuggled under a heavy blanket, with water and my phone nearby, I would sleep.

In the beginning, Heidi brought meals to me in the living room, but we decided it was more emotionally healthy for me to come to the table to eat. I can’t remember whose idea this was or that it was even discussed. It might have involved the admonition from our friend, Demetra, who had taken care of both her parents and was herself a cancer survivor, who advised Heidi, “Don’t baby her.”

After that, (there’s that phrase again), someone would fetch my walker, and I would lumber into the kitchen and sit at the table for every meal.

But the shower business continued to be challenging. So, Heidi bought a towel warmer…a wonderful gadget which should be in every home. We joked that this was definitely a step you could call “babying.”  

I would step out of the shower, and Heidi would immediately put a warm towel around me, which kept me from shivering and thus kept the muscle spasms at bay. Nevertheless, the spasms always loomed, and we learned to move with alacrity (this really is the perfect adjective) to get my pajamas on, and I would head to the recliner and turn on the warmer. The recliner was also next to the fireplace (gas) and Heidi often turned it on to make me more comfortable.

We had also received advice from our friend Aaron, who had had hip surgery years before, and warned us about keeping the incision clean so it would not get infected. Heidi was scrupulous about keeping the bathroom clean and inspected my incision often.

Our friend Amy, a genuine medical professional, (who will write the Foreword when these installments are compiled into a book) visited and checked on my walking, and my incision. Heidi reviewed my medication schedule with her. Amy’s assurance that we were doing everything right helped us move forward with confidence.

Amy explained the muscle spasms and said there would probably be three or four more and then they would stop, and sure enough, she was right. Knowing the spasms would end made them less formidable.

The compression socks continued to be a challenge to get on until our friend Tina, who had also worn compression socks, said to put the plastic bag the socks came in over the foot first and then the socks will slide on more easily. We tried. It was true. After that, we made use of the plastic bag.

Friends brought meals generally every other day…delicious, nutritious food. Though I had not eaten much in the hospital, I ate well, conscious I had to build up my strength.  

After a week, I was tired of being in pajamas and started getting dressed and putting on makeup every day. Gradually, I resumed my daily routine of opening my laptop to check e-mail, bank accounts, and to play Lumosity, which has been a twelve-year habit.

Every time I succeeded at a task, or reestablished a habit, my confidence increased. When my confidence increased, I had the courage to try harder, which bolstered my success, and so on.    

I did the therapy exercises twice a day, as I had been instructed, and “walked” around the first floor, down the hall, turning left, through the dining room, and back to the chair. One day, I pushed the walker a few feet away from me and took a few steps toward it. I began taking longer walks around the downstairs.

Since I like to iron, Heidi brought the ironing board downstairs, and I ironed my clothes every day. This was good practice standing, balancing, and also feeling “normal.”

One night, instead of waking Heidi to help me, I pulled the walker toward me and went to the bathroom by myself. Eventually, she moved back upstairs to her own room.

I started physical therapy appointments twice a week, which lasted for six weeks. Heidi insisted I leave the house to run errands with her. One day, we went to the Loop and actually went inside for lunch. One Sunday morning I went back to church.

Something I never thought would happen did happen—I was on my way back to normal.

Lessons Learned:

When you face a crisis such as this, no matter how capable you might be in ordinary circumstances, you still need help and advice from friends. Sometimes the smallest hint, a shared experience, can make day-to-day life easier. One less obstacle to face can make a huge difference.

No matter how frail you might feel as a patient or caregiver, move forward, vowing not to repeat yesterday’s mistakes, trying tasks that seem out of reach. Work enough, but not too much, requiring progress of yourself or the person you’re caring for. Set achievable goals and then go after them, but don’t be foolish or take unnecessary risks.  

Keep your sense of humor.  

There’s more to this chapter of the story, of course. I was still waging war against depression, a normal occurrence after a hip fracture. I was still grieving over missing my dog, Fletcher. I was still crying, sometimes from pain, sometimes for no reason at all.

You will note I have here described only one day of my recovery in detail…that first day, because everything about that first day was memorable.

After that, the days (like so much of “life,”) were similar—pleasures and trials, meals, successes, mistakes, showers, joys, sorrows, chores, going to sleep, waking up. Standing up. Walking with walker. Walking with a cane. Walking.  

Rehabilitation: to restore to health or normal life by training and therapy after illness.

After that, you become the “been there” person with your own file of handy hints.

After that, it’s time to turn and help the person coming along behind you.

“But the God of all grace, who hath called us unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you.” I Peter 5:10