Just as the family gathered this last Christmas Eve, I started coughing. Not at all a boring cough. The family went on alert, they gathered me up, put me in Margot’s little SUV, and hauled me up to the hospital. For some reason, I only lightly objected.
The food was terrible.
Somewhere along the line, I was told that I had pneumonia probably from the bit of corn I had inhaled a few days earlier. After days of pills and doctor visits, I was discharged to Balboa Nursing and Rehab, over my repeated objections, where I was warmly welcomed by all those who remembered me from last time.
The speech therapist insisted on machine macerating all my food. It all looked like vomit on a plate. G made some tactful phone calls, and a V8 appeared on my lunch tray. Marvelous. Otherwise, the food was terrible. Then again, I was a pretty fat old lady.
After a week in a three person room, I came down with Covid. Frankly I was a bit upset as I had carefully gotten all three shots. The food was still terrible. No therapists in the Covid wing. I slept a lot and didn’t eat much beginning a double battle to get regular food and to go home.
The doctor said I could go home as soon as I was let out of the Covid ward. Right.
(To be continued)