Discharge Home

Clarke and I both felt concerned about going back to the apartment. How would he move without injuring that ankle? which was already extremely painful. We were sent off with instructions to call the orthopedist for an appointment, and a prescription for Percocet. It was a bit bizarre. We drove down to the warehouse, and I went in and picked up the wheelchair that had belonged to Clarkes father, who died in 1975. And it weighs perhaps 2 or 3 times more than those being made today. In other words, clumsy and awkward to manoeuver.
By this time it was dark and nearing 10:30 pm. Once in the garage, I asked Roger to help me get him out of the car, and they somehow managed. We rolled him up to the apartment, and his first wish was to get into bed. Good idea, but the wheelchair did not fit between the bed and the wall...and that bed is not moveable except by demolition. So I got the walker from the office, backed up the wheelchair, pushed the walker through, and with a lot of backing and forthing and cries of pain, managed to get him to the edge of the bed. Finally he managed to get onto the bed. I gave him an oxycodone (he had them left over from the gum tissue transplant), but it provided little relief. At 2 am, he tried to get up to pee, and fell. He was wedged in between the walker and the wheelchair. Given his muscle weakness, his poor balance, and his exquisitely tender wound, it was a challenge to get him up safely, taking us well over an hour. His pain of course escalated, so a bit before 6, I called her for help. She appeared in minutes, if not seconds, bearing muffins baked by Claire, stronger pain relief, and all her nursing expertise. Whew!