Chapter 1: Recovering

After a couple of weeks, the hospital was willing to release me but they wouldn’t let me go home until I had someone there to take care of me. That meant hiring a home-care company since I had no one. Of course the hospital recommended their affiliated service. Since my insurance was paying for it, they even took care of the billing.

That got me home, but all I could do was mope around. The dog tried to be good company, but he wanted to know when Tommy would be home and I didn’t have a good answer for him. The cat didn’t care about Tommy, or even Sally as long as he got fed.

I still needed the wheelchair for a couple more weeks, since my left leg wasn’t ready to walk on and my left arm wasn’t up to using crutches. The home care people took care of me and the pets and I just sat around and stewed while I got better. One of the nurses wheeled me around the block every couple of days so that I could wave at the neighbors and give them a chance to say how horrible the accident was.

Howard came by a couple of times to tell me how the office was going. One thing he said surprised me: since the CEO had declared the awards dinner mandatory for all salaried employees but the company had not provided transportation, my driving to and from the dinner was necessary to my employment. Thus, my accident had been classified as work-related and the company’s insurance was paying for everything. They would try to recover from the racer’s insurance, but I should have no out of pocket expenses. Not even the deductible; Workers’ Comp even offered a cash settlement for my injuries. The company’s insurance was stuck with the bill for this whole thing. All the bills for all three of us.

Further, the company’s insurance rates had been raised due to the expanded coverage required to insure all supervisors while driving to and from work. I had to admit that made me feel a lot better. Not the money although that helped, but maybe next year they’d put some thought into that idiotic “All shop supervisors and above must attend my special day and listen to me talk about me” policy.

I got to know my neighbors better, at least the ones who spent any time outside. Everyone wanted to know what had really happened, but I couldn’t tell them. I missed it. I was driving us home, then I woke up in the hospital. I’m sure I spoke at great length, though. I was going crazy stuck in the house and I gave an earful to anyone who was willing to stop and listen.

One constant visitor was my Physical Therapist, a bodybuilder-looking guy named Eric. The doctors all told me to just humor him and do whatever he said, and I’d be back running marathons in no time. Well, I’d never run a marathon before the accident and I had no desire to start now, but I agreed that I needed help getting back to where I was.

Eric started me on arm exercises, just to get my heart pumping a little. Little stuff that wouldn’t strain my injured left side at all. Those squeeze spring things for my grip. A set of small dumbbells for my right arm and shoulder. Nothing heavy that might shift my left shoulder.

For the first week, he wouldn’t let me use any of it unless he was right there watching, as he didn’t want me to overdo or re-injure myself. He made sure my keepers knew that, too.

After that, though, I could exercise whenever I wanted as long as my keeper was spotting for me. And what else was I going to do? Watch “Days of Our Lives” all afternoon? Watch reruns of “Gilligan’s Island” and “Golden Girls”? I sure wasn’t going to surf for porn, not with my keeper looking over my shoulder!

After a couple of weeks with the dumbbells, Eric started me on something that he called a practice sword, to help strengthen my wrist. It looked nothing like a sword; it was just a piece of wood with weights at both ends. One end had a wrapped handle, and both ends had cushions to protect the house from my wild swings. The thing was awkward as hell, but it gave me something more interesting to play with than my dumbbells.

I slowly got better with the practice sword. He was right, just holding it all the time did wonders for my wrist and arm and shoulder. By the time I got out of that wheelchair I could control it well enough to turn on a light switch without smashing anything. And my right arm looked like I was a professional masturbator.

After about a month back in the house, they took me back in to change both of my casts into smaller ones. Then, after a couple more weeks, the leg cast got changed out for just a brace for my knee. I could stand on both legs! Not that I could stand unassisted at first, but I’d get better. They were adamant that the brace was not to come off for anything. Nuclear war, the Second Coming, it didn’t matter, I’d go to my interview with Jesus wearing that brace. Maybe he could heal me.

Still, it was progress. The brace weighed a LOT less than the cast had. And I could scratch. Man, that was so good!

They also told us that I could shower now, as long as my arm was wrapped so the cast didn’t get wet. That really was progress. I’m not gonna say that any of my keepers were beautiful, but two of them were at least female and I happily invited them to come help me shower. One said “In your dreams, grandpa!” while the other one just said “My husband gets really mad when I do that with the patients.”

They helped me put a trash bag on my left arm, but they wouldn’t help me shower. But I need help reaching my back! Tough. Here’s a stick with a sponge on the end. I could just feel the love, you know?

With the knee brace and a cane, I could hobble around on my own. I soon got good enough at it to say I was walking, and the live-in caretaker service got dialed back to a day service that fixed meals, helped me dress, and drove me around as needed. It was like I was living backwards, changing from the terminal ward at the hospital to a nursing home to an assisted living facility to a retirement home with maid service.