Hospital Meals

 I make no bones about my issues with food here in "the home".  They always seem to look good.  They always seem to be cold.

Now, cold breakfast eggs and sausage is forgivable occasionally, but every time?  This morning's breakfast of coffee cake and sausage was cold.  See the bowl of cereal?  No milk.  My breakfast, once again, is coffee.

I refuse to eat cold "hot food".  In my first twelve days here, I lost thirteen pounds.  I dropped from 165 when I arrived to 135.  I put on a few pounds and got to 155, but I am less than that now.

Some of my so called Facebook friends say I'm too picky.  Well, you try it.  Make scrambled eggs and sausage, and coffee.  Let it sit for a couple of hours.  Try eating it and get back to me.

At $9,400 per patient per month, you would think this hospital would have an adequately staffed kitchen with warming trays or lights. 

Out of all of the facilities I've been in over the past couple of years, this is the only one with a hot food problem.  You would think that a health related facility would be concerned about keeping food hot.

I try to make up for it by ordering dried fruit and health bars from the local grocery store.  But this is a ten foot high pile of stinking monkey crap.

Dinner in the Home

Dinner came. It's the highlight of my day here in the senior home. It was set on my little dinner tray on wheels. Somehow, I'm not sure how but it was probably my fault, it wound up on the floor. The whole thing, except for one bite that I took of the grilled cheese sandwich. An aide whisked in and we both cleaned it up. She left with the floor scrapings. I haven't seen her since 5:45 PM. It is now an hour and a half later.

My headache has come back now. I take oxycodone for it. I pushed my call button for the oxy and food. No response.

Apparently, if you knock your dinner on the floor, too bad so sad. You go without dinner for being a dumbass. UPDATE: Dinner never came.

Sanity

 As I sit here in the mental health unit of a local hospital (a topic for another day), I've noted that it is difficult when the patient is sane and all the staff are crazy.

Bonus Years

Bonus years.

In 2013 I was hit square on the head with a tree. It broke my neck and gave me a severe concussion. The doctors at Albany Medical Center were amazed as doctor after doctor passed by. I should be dead, they said.

That accident changed my life. Both physically and mentally. I won't get into the boring physical stuff other than to say that I can sort of get around, but not like I did.

Mentally is another issue. I thought long and hard on this. "You're really unlucky!" people would tell me. No, I'm lucky. I should be dead, yet here I am.

In the various hospitals I go to, and they ask whet happened and I tell them, they look both shocked and sad. "I don't care what happens," I answer. "I could end up with a walker or a wheelchair and I don't care. These are my bonus years. I shouldn't even be here."

But something very real happens around the holidays now. My mom and dad have passed, and so too all of my grandparents, and aunts and unclues. Pamela is gone. My two best buddies, my dogs Ruby and Chevy have crossed the Rainbow Bridge. I have friends but they can't visit my apartment or the hsoital because of the pandemic no-visitors rule. My daughter,

Becky Gibson Schott

, to whom I've given control over many healthcare decisions that have to be made, cannot visit.

For the first time, the holidays are truely depressing for me this year. The rehab center I'm in is working to get me to where I can go home to my apartment. I don't want to go there and be truly alone. At least here, I have a snoring roommate and aides that bring me ginger ale and Lornadoones.

I am going to look at assisted living homes shortly. For my mental health, it may be the best option.

Merry Christmas to me. But hey, on the bright side, these are all bonus years.