Another year, another election down the tubes . . .

This is the first election year Bob didn't vote, in all the years he's been a legal, registered voter. He's such a history-political geek, I'd bet money that as an underaged teen, he probably had a fake ID—not to purchase booze with—to vote. I suppose we could have procured an absentee ballot for him, but pretty sure he's feeling just a little out of the political (and otherwise) loop, being so disconnected from everything for so long . . .

I left the hospital midday to run some errands (seriously, haven't been to Target in over a month. I'm sure 3rd quarter sales plummeted, thanks to me) and was able to swing by the polls and cast my vote. Even for me, it was hard; other than the major races, I was pretty clueless about the other offices up for grabs, so I did what any good uninformed voter would do: wrote my husband in for a few seats. Though about Sheriff, but figured it might be too strenuous for his first public servant gig. Instead, I scribbled Bob's full name name in for Water and Soil Conservation and a judge position or two. Yeah, I know, wasted votes . . .

Rehab isn't going as fast as Bob would like it to go. I keep reminding him of where he's starting from. Basically, zero. It took a year to get to this point, it's gonna take a while to recover. In rehab today, as Bob was working on his exercises, I watched a young man, who appeared to be completely paralyzed, being lifted from his wheelchair to a large, low padded platform for his exercises by a Hoyer lift. Wasn't that long ago that nurses were using one of those to get Bob in and out of bed. . .

I'm filled with equal parts elation and heartache when I see Bob working in PT and OT. I can physically feel my heart swell when, each time he goes to to therapy, I see that he is stronger than he was last week: he does a few more reps, adds another pound or two to the weights, he tries new things with each session . . that even though he grumbles when the PTs and OTs push him, I know he likes the extra dose of "tough love," because that's the kind of guy he is—determined, motivated, strong. But I can feel, to a tiny degree, what he feels inside, that for all the exhausting efforts, it's still going to take weeks and months of strengthening, exercises, stretching, to get to a point where he feels comfortable, truly at ease with his new body and how it works now. I have to really fight back tears when I see how hard he's trying and sometimes things just aren't there yet for him, and how frustrating that is, and that the exercises sometimes take so much out of him that he'll sleep for a good two hours after . . . I see how hard it is for him to get that damn right leg to move the way he wants it to, or to walk without the walker, or to get out of bed by himself. He curses the body that now, does nothing right, nothing the way it used to, doesn't listen to him when he whispers between clenched teeth, "Come on, foot, move with me. . . "

When he walks, he has to think of so many things: not leaning too hard on the walker or his arms and shoulders will pay the price (and inhibits his progress if he relies on the walker too heavily), standing straighter, looking ahead of him, not at his feet, taking a big stride with his left foot, using more of his adductor muscles in the right leg to keep his foot from swinging out to the side . . . that's just walking, peeps. Think of all the things we do, all day long, day in and day out, that we don't think about: getting in and out of bed, getting up off a chair, brushing our teeth, taking a shower, going to the bathroom, getting dressed, eating . . . each of these things takes concentrated effort on Bob's part. No wonder he's often dropping off to sleep when he has some down time. I think of all the things we haven't even tried yet, and know we have a long way to go before he can come home.

Last week, I asked his primary doc what sort of mobility and movement can Bob expect to recover, given the nature of his surgery, the nerve loss and such. Right now, it's so hard for Bob to get excited about all the hard work he's doing, as he really doesn't know just how much he'll be able to recover, how much he'll eventually be able to do again. At this point, Bob feels this is it, "this" meaning the state of his body right now: walking (and not very far, in the grand scheme of things) with a walker, so limited in mobility and/or ability to do much of anything right now, far from being independent. I told Bob's doc I think he could use a dose of realistic insights, based on his situation, to perhaps give him something to work for, that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

I love it that Bob's primary doctor defers to another specialist when we speak of issues out of his realm of internal medicine. He's confident almost to the point of arrogant about his IM knowledge but also knows when to bring another specialist in when the questions we ask are out of his realm. His doc said a Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation doctor would be the best person to talk to about that.

Next day, we're paid a visit by the PM&R doc. I relayed the same concerns to him as I did to Bob's primary. The PM&R doc looked at Bob, almost in shock and said, "Oh, Bob, I hope you don't really believe that you're not going to get much better that where you are now! No, no, no—even with the foot drop and nerves that were lost, you will be able to regain strength and mobility again, even be athletic, if that's your desire." He went on to explain the amazing world of orthotics and how there's one to fit every person, every lifestyle. "It will take a long time to recover from all you've gone through, no doubt about it, Bob, but with physical therapy and your motivation and determination, I see no reason why you can't resume much of what you did prior to all this." I was encouraged by his words, but I could tell Bob wasn't much. I know it's gonna take more than a pep talk by a doctor who just met him, so we'll persevere. . .

And here at Bethesda, we may have discovered Bob's new calling. Jewelry making. Yes, I said jewelry making. See, he goes to recreational therapy (or is it therapeutic recreation? I always forget . . .) once a week; the first time I went with him, the RT's were all happy welcoming, "Hey, Bob! Welcome to Recreational Therapy! Here, you can do all kinds of cool things, like paint a bird house, make a ceramic trivet, play a game—we have tons of board games. . ." Bob just stared at them. He wasn't biting. When they turned away for a minute, he said, "What the hell, am I at summer camp?" I told him to just go along with it, be a good sport, see what it's all about. We played a game of Yahtzee that first session, that took up the entire half hour of RT, so he didn't have time to do anything else.

Next session I missed, as I'd ran home to let the dogs out. When I got back, we were sitting in his room when he suddenly said "Oh, wait, I have something for you." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little baggie. "I made this in therapy today." I pulled a lovely, sparkly turquoise and crystal beaded necklace. "You did not make this!" I said, fastening it around my neck. "There's no way I can picture you stringing beads to make jewelry—they must have drugged you!" Penny and Jim vouched for him; they said Cindy, the super-nice woman from Transport whose job it is to bring patients to and from therapies, talked him into making the necklace, because she's seen other patients come through with beautiful jewelry made from their very own hands. When I got home that night, I dug through my vast collection of earrings and found a pair that matched the necklace, like they were made for each other! I wore them to the hospital the following day, and made it a point to tell everyone I could that he had made the necklace for me. . .

Today, it was a pair of earrings. Beautiful, earthy, dangly earrings made of stone and silver beads. I told him he could be making all his Christmas presents while he was here. Place your orders soon, or you won't get yours in time for the holidays . . .

Eyes very sleepy, not a monumental amount of news to share (funny how I can still ramble on endlessly even without tons of progress to share, huh?), but still celebrating the baby steps, even when they so small, they don't feel like they're taking us anywhere . . . and the beautiful November weather. . . tomorrow is a busy day—PT twice, OT, wound vac change and MIST therapy, maybe try to sneak another shower in. I helped him with one the other day, so if he does want one, we don't have to wait around until a nurse or an aide is available. . . off I go. . .

xxoo LOVE! Jen