Gentle Readers,

I apologize for the erratic and volatile stream of these situation reports. They were intended to convey the stark horror of entering the health system as a fairly sentient adult and having independence shorn away in a manner equivalent to being beaten and incarcerated after having stuck up the 7-11 Bodega down at the corner.

That is just the attention-getting phase of the medical adventure and refers to the complete denuding of all elements of privacy and dignity. Last week contained a medical appointment, for example, that included being disrobed and violated in front of witness as my digestive tract attempted to evacuate itself.

But this is not an attempt to convey the horror of what is about to happen to you, though it might be useful as an orientation. There are means to avoid some of the worst of it by being prepared, and the key is preparation and preemptive activity to channel the loss of your freedom and dignity in a way that is a little easier to take. And maybe have a plan to make some of the decisions your own.

Here is one: I entered a modern hospital for some major surgery nearly three months ago. I have spent the remaining time shuttled downward through a network of reinforcing care facilities with increaing distance in space and time from actual care and more on maintenance that has little to do with soaring glass and steel and more to do with the earth to which we will return.

I only popped out of medicated incontinence to something like full cognition a little more than a month ago, still under a 24-hour regimen of a page and a half of medications. An earlier version of this 13 April SitRep attempted to describe yesterday’s institutional weekend in a partial hallucination induced by prolonged exposure to back-page, non-sequential Fox news programing. Documenting and sharing it may have some minor entertainment value, but the greater realization that you could experience a loss of reality so profound simply by being parked in a crowded room near a booming flatscreen television is worth consideration to avoid such dislocation.

Woodbine Rehab is a high-function sort of place billing at a preferential and unknown rates. Concerned estate stakeholders of inmates are still free to express concern and mild relief in electronic communication without the onerous chores of full-scope care. In terms of high-function, I have access to a working Internet account and the ability to spew nonsense across infinity.

This afternoon I RSVP’d to a gathering of legitimately Great Americans with whom I shared a rewarding career that started inn a Navy Watch Center in Pearl Harbor. I was intended to combat the Soviet submarine missile threat. It will be a grand reunion across six decades, but I hope I will be well enough groomed not to be an embarrassment, or the living example of how I should not have lived my Life.

I wrote back to the organizer and twenty-odd comrades:
“Rufus, I am currently in a horror of medical care known as a Skilled Nursing Center; I am scheduled for release in the next few days and am planning on attending. I give my RSVP to PAY even if the skilled nurses have me chained to my bed. I may need help to get the box of wine to my wheelchair!”

Looking at it now I see the flaws and the need to endow the space for the wheelchair in advance. Which led to an exchange with another old pal who captured the nature of life in a Skilled Nursing Facility like the one I occupy. Linda has shared this life as a woman of circumstance and I admire her perspective on primal events i can only appreciate at a distance. She wrote in response to my mutterings with emotion:
“I get it. I was talking to a fellow retired probation officer last week and we were laughing at our foolishness in not
maintaining contact with our criminals so that we could program our exits! Damn poor planning.

I can drive. Freedom. Tried it last week and today, with grandchild (the good one) riding along. It was as if I had been driving all along. No fear, no nerves, but caution because people here are bad drivers. It’s been 4 months, I’m ecstatic.

A bit of back story. My granddaughter, the gorgon, insisted that I get a medical release. She called my new primary care physician who sent a referral to occupational therapy. OT called me, $550, no insurance coverage. I gracefully declined. The since all of my physical therapists have made it clear that driving would be fine at some point. They said that I (ME)
would know when I was ready. I knew, I know, I’m one happy person.

We may be old, but we still know our own bodies and what we can and cannot do. Stay strong, get out of the Cuckoo’s Nest as soon as you can safely, my white horse has been sent out to pasture or I’d be saddling up. To quote my father:

IMG_6885.jpeg

Sent from my iPhone

I wrote back immediately:

“I may have a breakthrough on getting out of this to another local place and have a line on combating the mRNA component of the covid vaccine that caused the vascular problem with blood clotting. A nice drink on a sunlit beach: Danube? Rhine? Mexico? Those would be my choice for the backdrop to the exit but one that features a painless and pleasant means to make the exit choice my own and final when it comes.

I am not doing this style recovery again, but that is directly connected to not understanding the nature of age and
recovery.

I had no idea of the institutional horror of the “Skilled Nursing Facility.” It is the new theme to accompany the
Handbook of Horrors for the Newly Aged.

Vic”

She had written in appreciation of the image of the Viking River cruse boat that appeared yesterday and may have startled her. “Take me with you on that ship!

I spent about 2 months in a “skilled nursing facility” following my surgery and it was hell. My roommate played Fox all day, people yelled for help all night, food was horrid, nursing was on a scale of “competent to WTF”. I suffered all the usual indignities. Physical therapy was run by a very competent man, but some of the therapists were useless.

My bed was awful.

I had some relief playing bingo (shut up), something called Farkle, another called 4-3-2 (?). My fellow players took
a week to accept me into their group, 4 mostly coherent and bright people.

Get out as soon as you can, I’m assuming that you have good insurance and financial resources that will facilitate
this. I’m now ensconced in a granny flat, very cute, but attached to my eldest granddaughter’s place here in North Carolina. How did I end up with a child and grandchildren with negative empathy, greed, hypocrisy, you name it.
I’m busting my ass in PT to get back home in Mexico.

If I were still up to fighting for a cause, it would have to be the “skilled nursing facility.” A dumping off place for
those with no choice, a veritable hell for those who are unable to care for themselves.

As it is now, I’m hoping to get home where kind elder care is available, medical care is spotty but everyone knows
who the good doctors are. I still can pretty much take care of myself, but I’m also realistic about the future. I’d rather do the future where I’m treated like a smart, educated, experienced person rather than an addlepated unrealistic asshole.

Well, my dear, this old age stuff is challenging, to say the least. If you want to come to Mexico, live on the beach,
enjoy life as you wish – let me know.

Your aged friend, still looking for Betsey Johnson to make my warrior battle dress!

Sent from my iPhone

I put down my tablet in wonder. marveling at the challenges I can only imagine. But that is the key to this challenge. It is coming. It will happen to you. Try to have a plan and recognize you will succumb. Try to do it with dignity if it matters and fireworks if it doesn’t.

More tomorrow if there is anything worth passing along. I think Linda has a pretty good view of the plate of possibilities. Mexico had been her dream, like Refuge Farm had been mine. The plan apparently requires back-ups, you know?

V/R
JR