Warren is Home Again, also
By the time you read this, my brother will be home from his hip-replacement rehab at Providence Mt. St. Vincent in West Seattle. It’s been the best choice he could have made, for a variety of reasons.
First of all, as I’ve said, my daughter Lisa is the social worker for the rehab wing in which Warren has stayed. That means she knows and trusts all the caregivers and therapists. Warren also liked the two cats that hang out in that wing.
And, of course, my grandchildren are in daycare in the building, so I could take them to visit Uncle Warren. One afternoon I left Adam, age four, with Warren for a few minutes and came back to find them both stretched out on the bed reading "Motor Trend" together.
During Warren’s stay at Providence Mt. St. Vincent, I’ve been present for many meals. There’s a little dining area where meals are served down the hall from his room on the fifth floor.
On the second floor, there’s a cafeteria and a formal dining room, so patients and guests have plenty of choice where to eat, from one meal to the next.
The menu is impressive, and anytime the main dish doesn’t appeal to an individual, there always are options, including grilled salmon. The first day Warren was there, someone came by with a root beer float a few minutes after he got settled. I think he figured out at that point that all would be well.
Warren astonished staff members in the rehab wing both by his speedy progress and his totally undemanding nature.
Anytime I inquired as to whether he had asked a staff member for anything (A smoothie? An ice cream bar? A cup of tea and a cookie?) he said no, that he hadn’t wanted to bother them.
One nurse complained to me, “He never lets us DO anything for him!”
My brother’s rehab stay turned out to be less than two weeks, rather than the three or even four weeks we had anticipated.
During that time, he left The Mount, as it is called, only once. Early on a Friday afternoon, I drove him—gently—to a post-op appointment on the Overlake Hospital campus in Bellevue.
After the appointment, dreading 3 p.m., Friday traffic on 405, this is what I did: I forgot that I was to go on 405 SOUTH until—too late-- I entered 405 NORTH, inching along, not knowing what to do next. “Let’s just go to Edmonds,” suggested my helpful brother, enjoying his afternoon out.
Hot, tired, sick of stop-and-go traffic—and learning of a five-mile back-up on 405 South, I eventually made my way to the toll bridge to Seattle. We were back in West Seattle by dinnertime.
Welcome home to Edmonds, Warren.