My husband and I packed Paul's things over the weekend because the assisted living facility needs to work on the apartment to show to new prospective clients. Closet doors are off their hinges, scuffed woodwork needs painting, carpet replaced. It all has left me empty and struggling not to feel resentment, because it feels as though there is no depth of feeling for this man. Except for Bernice, who knocked at Paul's open door. She called for Paul and when I came to the door, she told me how she missed him, asked after his health and said she would pray for him.
Five boxes, four garbage bags filled, two televisions, and plates with silverware I have little hope he will use again, they are ready for a storage unit. We are in search of a long term care facility for Paul. He has gone as far as he can in Drake short term care. They've worked with him in physical therapy, gotten him to a base line of being able to dress himself, get in and out of bed and go to the bathroom. He gets speech therapy still with the hope that he will one day eat again, but still we must find long term care for him.
I've thought about what it means to be a victim. I struggle with the terminology because I seem to have graduated from the school of victims. But, when I think of my brother, I continue to struggle more with the fact that, no matter how much humor comes out of his mouth, how he tries to get away with drinking iced tea, that he is a victim. He is a victim of the medical world when 7 people come into his room and not one of them can tell me anything about his situation. He's a victim when a feeding tube is his only existence because someone failed to stop when an ambulance was taking someone to the hospital, with lights and sirens blaring.
More to come.