Grandma went home from the hospital yesterday, and was very glad to get back to her own little place.
We’ve been concerned that she’ll have trouble fixing food for herself, since now she needs a walker to stand up, so my parents arranged to have Meals on Wheels come by and bring her lunch. Grandma tends to be leery of opening the door to people she doesn’t know, so I went over there today so she’d have some family there the first time they came over.
She’s feeling much better. She chattered the whole time I was there, except when actually eating her lunch, mostly alternating between remarks about the difficulties now imposed on her by her injury and various resulting conditions, and how glad she was that it hadn’t been worse. She’s said several times that she’s relieved she didn’t break a bone when she fell. She complained a bit, but not as much as usual; I think she’s compared her lot to that of some of the other residents of the rehab center, and feels she’s got it pretty good (all things considered).
I took over my little project bag and just worked on the stumpwork hedgehog Romilly taught a class in while I listened. Grandma likes that I do stuff like that, and has said one of these days she’ll teach me to quilt. One of these days I’m going to show up at her door with a box of scraps and really surprise her. For me, doing these stitching-type things is almost like a kind of meditation, so I found my mind contemplating all manner of things as I listened. What we would have done if she had broken a bone—she wouldn’t have been able to live alone any more, in all likelihood. The way people filter their experiences through a lens of their own preconceptions—her account of what happened in the hospital, as well as past family interactions, is markedly different from how those around her remember it. What it will be like for me when I’m old and feeble and probably senile (will anyone be able to tell the difference?).
On another note, my mate has returned from Massachusetts, so all is right with the world again.