Previously: I detail my experiences in the hospital focusing on the ordeal of having an MRI for the first time in my life. After seven monotonous days, the doctor gives the okay to transport me to a rehab center. It’s takes eleven hours for the staff to locate a place with a bed available.

Chapter 82 ends:

As it turned out, it was midnight before a place could be found. When an ambulance finally came to take me to Oakhurst in Ocala, I thanked God, bowed to Mecca, and praised Allah. I wanted to cover all bases. I hoped the worst was over.

Although I wanted to go home, experts have found that patients heal faster if placed in a transitional care unit for more physical therapy. It makes sense. Home meant doing laundry, cleaning toilets, dusting, vacuuming, cooking meals and cleaning up afterward. Wait a minute!  That sounds pretty damn physical to me. Ah, but that's ten hours.  I only had to spend sixty minutes in the rehab room.

For the next seven days, I filled out a form checking off breakfast, lunch and dinner choices if I wanted room service. If not, I could go to a dining room with round tables designed to seat six. A waiter would take my order. No matter what option I chose, the food was better than anything I cooked. Yes, I could get used to this.

Frank brought me a few clothes. At Oakhurst all patients were expected to dress every day. Everyone took physical therapy. Imagine the views available if riding a stationary bike or lifting weights in a hospital gown with an opening in the back.

My first day, the Director of Nursing walked me to the conference room to meet "the team". Original paintings of landscapes, and flowers decorated a lavender wall. A large oval Cherrywood table and eight high- backed leather chairs dominated the room. I didn’t expect this royal treatment. The administrator sat at the head and introduced the Director of Rehab, the Dietician, the Resident Doctor, and two other people on the top rung of the ladder. Each one explained their professional duties and what they could do to help make my stay comfortable. Comfortable? Hell, I felt downright pampered  sitting in that corporation chair.

The second day, I got a roommate, a plump blonde in her early fifties. I don’t remember her problem. Maybe I didn’t ask. She had a lot of visitors every day. Family and people from her church including the pastor. That scared me. One’s choice of church affiliation is a private affair. I knew from prior experiences that Baptists went overboard to recruit. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. I figured she was probably a Protestant or Methodist. I didn’t ask. No telling what that question could lead to.

Actually roomie turned out to be my savior. She told me one thing I didn’t learn at the oval table. "They have a beauty salon not far from the circular desk down the hall."

I inched out of bed as fast as I could and grabbed my walker. At the reception desk, I made an appointment for cut and coloring. Three hours later, I looked ten years younger. "I feel human again!" I showed roomie my red tresses. "Tomorrow I’m eating in the dining area."

The week went fast. Frank came every day, tired and lonely. My phone rang often. Daughter and son showed concern and sent flowers. Former co-workers and old friends with whom I had kept in touch called for long conversations. Hubby must have spread the word.

In spite of the restful surroundings (the landscaping included a meditation garden where I spent time every day) and the free ice cream cone days, I missed my big bed and favorite TV program "Criminal Minds".  Roomie watched game shows and sit coms.  Well, I could enjoy them too.

Did I mention I missed Frank's updates on his constipation woes?

Back home, finally. Hubby helped me catch up on laundry, fill the refrigerator and pantry with food. I swear he lived on cereal, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, soup and TV dinners while I was away.

Two young therapists came three times a week for six weeks to demonstrate new exercises and to teach me how to avoid possible falls while vacuuming. "Make sure the cord is over your shoulder and out of the way," Jenny bubbled. "Get rid of the small throw rugs too."

My insurance paid for a four-wheeled walker.  Each day I circumnavigated our cul-de-sac, and then branched out to the quiet side street. I missed being able to walk at a rapid pace. Before my fall I could jog a little and even run for a minute or two. Bone density tests showed severe loss in my pelvic area.

While I was getting better, Frank’s mental and physical health slid downhill. Even before my fall, I noticed hubby’s increasing road rage and rude behavior to clerks and customers who kept him waiting. He started parking the car at thirty-five degree angles. He would forget where he put things. The doctor did a brain scan and found signs of vascular dementia in November of 2010.

A month later, Frank’s blood tests showed he had hyperkalemia, a dangerous condition that occurs when too much potassium accumulates in the body. That would explain his constant fatigue and weakness. One of many causes for this condition is injury to the muscles. At least that’s what the doctor at the hospital said. I don’t remember hubby exercising at all. That was against his religion. Maybe he fell once or twice while I was gone.

He stayed a couple of days at a place ten minutes away and received orders to avoid certain foods.  By Christmas we both were in good shape again. Then Nichole called with some unexpected news.

To be continued