It’s been a hectic but very positive week. Real progress is being made, readers!

I traditionally haven’t done well with transitions. As I’m sure I’ve written a bazillion times before, my preference is usually to remain in an uncomfortable situation rather than face the risk presented by change. (Which happens to be one of my least favourite words.) And so last Monday, when I received a bed offer for my top-choice rehabilitation facility—with a next-morning transfer—I freaked out. Even though this was/is an ideal step toward my goals. Even though it was/is what I genuinely wanted and want.

Upon frantic reflection, I realized that what was bothering me most wasn’t the transition from the hospital to rehab; it was that the transition wasn’t from the hospital home. The hard truth, though, is that returning to my apartment right now would be, to put it bluntly, stupid. I can’t walk, let alone climb stairs, and I’m still reliant on others for help with basic tasks. Rehab is where I need to be, but home, with my husband and in familiar surroundings, is where I want to be. Talk about motivation, people.

Once I’d acknowledged my resentment that this next stage of my recovery is necessary, it was (somewhat) easier to accept it. By the time the paramedics came to transport me, I was (mostly) OK with the idea.

I’ll elaborate about my initial impressions in a future post. My team keeps me busy, so I’m that I-accomplished-something-today-and-deserve-a-long-nap kind of tired. For now, I’ll simply write that I’m happy and comfortable here, ready to take on this next stage of my “return to life.” My work’s already paying off: yesterday I wore real clothes for the first since May.

Sweatpants and a novelty T-shirt, obviously.

The view from my window.


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