Rehab Day 1

Today, Dad's first full day in the rehab hospital, did not disappoint. The highlights for him were an hour each with physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy (the last being more about cognition, not the mechanics of speaking). These were intro assessment sessions for the therapists, learning about Dad's current condition, but they were intense. I won't attempt to list everything that they did; suffice it to say, he was worn out by the time he got to dinner.

As well, I got to speak with Dad's case manager, who provided a very helpful overview of the next 2-3 weeks. Early next week, Dad's rehab team will have a plan, including a target discharge date and goals for various skills and abilities he will have by then. Implicitly, this plan will also provide expectations for the level of care and type(s) of therapy Dad will need at his next facility. Structured guy that I am, having a plan, or even a plan for a plan, makes me feel better.

The rehab hospital is a lovely change from a traditional hospital. Nothing against a traditional hospital; their design has to accommodate many different needs, and of course many of these facilities have evolved over decades as needs have grown and changed. The rehab hospital is quite new, with spacious corridors that encourage moving around, a big therapy gym, and a nice courtyard where Dad was able to sit with Debbie and Marty this afternoon. And the food is better.

It turns out that Dad's speech therapist, J, is the older sister of one of my best friends from high school. I'd say, "It's a small world," but this is all happening within ten miles of where we grew up, so maybe not. Still , it's a funny coincidence.

The "brains are weird/amazing" moment of the day occurred during speech therapy, where Dad was given a circle drawn on paper and was supposed to add the clock numerals and draw the hands for ten past eleven. (Evidently this a classic therapy question, which is why many of you readers are nodding in recognition.) My left-handed Dad was holding a pencil in his right hand, not having made any mark on paper, to the best of my knowledge, at any time since his stroke. He sat stock still for quite some time. J saw him look at his left hand, and the fingers on his hand twitch; Dad knew that writing was a thing to do with the left hand, even if it wasn't cooperating. So J offered that he could just point to where the "12" goes on the clock. After another long wait, Dad moved the pencil to the top of the circle, and wrote "XII", "12" in Roman numerals. He then proceeded to label the rest of the clock in Roman numerals, including the horizontal bars at the top and bottom of each numeral. Finally, for good measure, he drew the clock hands in the right places. It was amazing and heartening to see all those pieces come together. I was also so grateful for J's insight and patience to give him the time to have that success.