It’s not that the facility is horrible or anything, and it beats the hell out of being in the ICU (or dead), but I feel like a prisoner. Everything is regimented, from the time I wake up to when I eat and when I’m supposed to go to bed, which is early because they’re very big on rest here. I’d give anything to be in my own home, watching TV on the couch as late as I want. If rehab is jail, then Jessie is my warden. She has a day planner she carries everywhere she goes. It’s leather and zips shut. Inside are various handouts with instructions on everything from wound care to self-administered pain medicine. Every scrap of paper the hospital has ever given us is in there. Jessie uses the calendar tab to keep track of my daily schedule: cognitive retraining, physical therapy—including strength, coordination, endurance, and balance—and occupational therapy, which has been the hardest for me to accept. I don’t care what anyone says, learning to dress yourself again at thirty-eight is a humbling experience.
