To Rehab We Go (Again and Again)

                                                                Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash

​When the door to the rehab in Petaluma, California swung open, I knew it was not going to be a good fit. The residents were younger, for starters. Much younger. Also, a bit of a discrepency in hygiene standards became evident right away. Showers eluded my co-junkies. Many didn't bother to flush. God forbid they clean their hair out of the drain. I'm not a neat-freak, but being there sure pushed me in that direction.

I missed my maid. There, I said it. If only Rosa were with me, everything would have been alright. As an elder, surely I deserved a perk here and there. I made an appointment with the director. 

"Thanks for taking the time," I tried to tread lightly. "While I appreciate everything you are doing here, I'm afraid I'm not suitable. I'm a tad high maintenance and unmoored without my support system."

"There is always an adjustment period," she started, donning invisible kid gloves. "How about I schedule a meeting with your care-team therapist tomorrow to discuss your concerns?"  

I agreed but was dubious.

To my pleasant surprise, the therapist was gentle and competent. A winner in a long line of losers. I wanted to please him, so I stayed. By the end of a grueling ten weeks, my blood pressure had shot up to 200/135. I was repeatedly carted to and from the ER.

One day, a most unwelcome ER doc told me I was experiencing garden-variety anxiety and to please not return.

I talked to the kind therapist about my dilemma; he agreed it was time for me to leave, emphasizing I was not to go back to LA. He knew of a place.

Upon arrival to Full Circle SLE, I had a plan. I refused to make my bed, fold my clothes or vacuum.  A committee agreed to meet with me. I explained Rosa's essential role and offered to pay double. They made an exception. She arrived the next day. I was on the road to paradise.

Or so I thought.