The arrival of the new room-mate has been an irritating entertainment. He appeared on a rolling cart yesterday in mid-afternoon, attempting to command the Rehab staff to bend to his will. I think his name is Ken, though there were no introductions. I recognized some of it from my own behavior last month, and the growling admission that he had to submit in some circumstances while still attempting to assert the remnants of his diminished will and authority.

It is beyond laughable in familiarity. Of all things, The Congressional Leadership is hard at work, Majority Leader Tuberville is flashing across my screen, tilted behind my curtain. The words murmur about the extraordinary. Tuberville was a football coach and I recognize the spirit of the rhetoric, just as I did from Kamala’s running mate, Governor Waltz last week in whatever that wierd dance campaign might have been.

They were both talking about the Big Budget ($7.6 Trillion) now sliding back toward the House, I think, just as I slide to toward the Monday Meeting. The last time I cared about the annual budget it was an almost unimaginable $4.6 trillion and that was at the start of covid. Last time I heard about an unimaginable debt it was imagined to be $37 trillion, and this morning Senator Tuberville seemed to be urging us to prevent imagining something like $57 Trillion.

My South Corner of room 138 is now out of imagination, and there has been no report of any stirring in the North or East corners so far this morning. Both had visitors in the night, so they may know but did not share. The newest- Ken, maybe- had a woman to whom he issued some imperious commands shortly after 02:20. He may be a victim of an unintended fall or some recent trauma.

The East corner has been a silent prostrate presence in his time here. He is under some sort of watch by a man of color in dark-colored weather garb, hair gathered under a knit cap in one long dramatic strand hanging long and thick across the left side of his face. He is nameless to my hearing and slipping quietly into his night under the gaze of some sort of family.

My South Corner appears to reflect different applications of age and injury. I have been blessed with visitors and two removals in stretchers reflecting organized clanking medical campaigns. All I am seeking is release, and it seems I am a likely candidate with no aberrant behavior. but there are factors in play which I clearly do not understand as I try to array myself for success in the Case Management Meeting Tomorrow.

I wish I could use the walker to arrive at my bed, billed as the locus of the meeting. I wish I had a hair cut and was clean shaven to demonstrate capabilities in cleanliness. There had been a desperate request for Salon time to get a haircut, first since the surgery in January. I look appalling but have no confidence any deconfliction has been arraigned to have the desired effect.

There had been a strategy to have an independent assessment by the newest of the assisted living concerns, but my desire to escape Ken and bad food and guests who chatter in the night or shout their displeasure are extraneous to the meeting tomorrow.

There is a ring of raw subcutaneous flesh on my left ankle that causes some distress with any movement. I would just like to go somewhere quiet without Ken and his girlfriend to let it heal where the food is warm, you know?

V/R,
JR