Six Months On (Episode 23) — I Tried to Go to Rehab, But They Said “No, no, no!”

Tim Van Dusen
Aug 8, 2017 · 8 min read

On January 10th we got the news we had been waiting to hear. I had been weaned off the supplemental oxygen day by day and was finally being released from the hospital’s care. Next stop was rehab for about 10 days to get my strength back and then I’d finally get to go home. I was ready to get out of there and start the long road back to full strength.

It was a Tuesday when we found out but it could be another day or so before the paperwork was taken care of but the social workers were on it. Paper was flying, things were happening. It came down to either Baptist or St. Vincent. Since St. Vincent Rehab was not far from my house it was our first choice. There was even talk that I might have a room to myself.

It was just a matter of waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

On Thursday they said that our insurance decided that instead of a rehab facility I needed to go to an assisted living facility.

A nursing home.

Bullshit.

They ordered another evaluation from the physical therapist and I duly impressed her. No nursing home for me. Friday morning rolled around and they said that St. Vincent’s had the paperwork since Tuesday but did nothing with it. By that time the insurance came back and said that despite the more positive recommendation from PT, they were declining me going to St. Vincent. The social workers were already working on getting me into Baptist. They were frantically working to get it done and hoped to have me out of there by the end of the day.

There was double urgency to get this done quickly. Not only was the weekend approaching but it was a holiday weekend with Martin Luther King day on Monday. UAMS offices were closed and it was unlikely that anything would happen that day, either. The rush was on. Susan had packed our stuff and we sat waiting on the word that it was a go.

Around 4:30 that afternoon the social worker came with the news. Baptist had no beds available until next week. We would spend the 3-day weekend in my room on H6 at UAMS.

And after almost a month of holding everything and everyone together, of keeping me alive, of being the rock that everyone leaned on, of keeping our world going in every aspect, Susan broke.

After all of the sleepless nights in a place that no one goes to rest, after all the driving back and forth from home, after practically skipping Christmas and definitely skipping birthdays, after the the constant parade of nurses and doctors, after all the dreams and hallucinations and all my shenanigans she had had all that she could take. For the first time in nearly a month she finally showed that in deed she was…human.

She burst into tears and ran from the room. I looked at the social worker who had brought the bad news and explained to her that my wife had been a rock throughout all of this so she’s a bit exhausted. She said she understood and no explanation was needed. She was just sorry to have to bring us this news. Susan returned a little later and had gathered herself but no one would have blamed her if she hadn’t.

By then end of this 3-day weekend it would be 6 days stuck in a place that I didn’t need to be. Six unnecessary days in the most expensive hotel in the state. Six days of sick leave without the intensive rehabilitation that I needed. When I did get into rehab it would throw off the schedule of when I could potentially return to work. There was no guarantee there would be a bed for me at Baptist come next week so it was all up in the air at that point.

Thoughts of a true escape crossed our minds. What would happen if she just took me home? This wasn’t a prison. I wasn’t on oxygen any more and they weren’t even monitoring my vitals at that point. If I was going to be stuck in a bed for 3 more days why couldn’t it be my own bed? There would be certain logistical issues but those could be worked out. I had managed to make it to the bathroom with the aid of a walker and guiding hand earlier in the day. Thanks to Mary we had an arsenal of medical equipment at home, including a walker that I could use.

I spoke to the nurse about it and he said that there was nothing legally keeping me there but leaving without clearance from the doctor would likely present several problems, not the least of which was that the insurance company could (and probably would) decide not to pay for any of my time in the hospital. Regardless of whatever other flaws there may have been in that plan, the idea of insurance not paying for any of this put the plan to rest. In retrospect, it would probably not have been a good idea anyway but a desperate mind can justify a lot things. So we resigned ourselves to the fact that i would be there until Tuesday. Susan had brought a couple of games from home and we had Netflix on a laptop to try to keep ourselves occupied. Perhaps a visitor might come by and give us a change of pace. Anything would have been a welcome distraction from looking at these same four walls we had been staring at for weeks.

The Angels of Physical Therapy

On Saturday and Sunday we got a couple of surprise visitors in the form of Physical Therapists. I don’t know if they came specifically to see me or if they were just making rounds on the floor but they gave me the chance to not only get out of bed but get out of the room.

Over the last few days I had gotten pretty good at handling the walker for small trips from the bed to a chair and a trip to the bathroom for a proper shower but the chair and bathroom were just a few steps from my bed. Here was a chance to really do some moving. I had only been able to imagine what wonders awaited me outside of my room. I was finally going to find out first hand.

The plan was for me to use the walker from the bed out into the hallway with Susan and the therapist following close behind me with a wheelchair. We’d go as far as i could and then I’d sit and rest or could be wheeled back to the room. As I made it out the door I stopped to soak in the glorious view. It was the nurses station for my floor but in that moment it could have been the sewers of King’s Landing and I would have thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was outside of my hospital room so it seemed like Disney World in my eyes.

I took one step towards the nurses station and then another. As I did so I realized that this was going to be be my life for the next few weeks. One step at a time for even the simplest things. The old adage about the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step came to mind. Only my journey of thousand miles was actually about 10 feet. But the process was the same. Put one foot in front of the other. Then repeat. I reached the corner of the nurses desk and was met with smiles of encouragement from the skeleton crew that was working this holiday weekend.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a competitive person. Never have been. If you tell me I can’t do something I’m not likely to take it as a personal challenge. I’ll take it as a statement that you just made that may or may not be correct. We won’t know until I’ve tried (which I may or may not do). If I can do it I will and if I can’t then I’ll do something else…or nothing else. But standing at the corner of the nurses station I thought of the physical therapist that came to see me just after I woke up. She was full of warnings and doubts and kept emphasizing that it would take a long time for me to get my strength back. And then I thought of the insurance company saying that I needed to go to a nursing home. Didn’t these they know what I had just been through? A couple of weeks ago they said I wouldn’t live through the night and now here I was breathing on my own, outside of my room and standing tall (OK. Leaning on a walker but you get my point.)

I looked down the hallway and saw that the desk went for another 10 feet or so and that became my next destination. I took a deep breath, pointed the walker down the hall and trudged on. My steps got smaller as I got closer to the end of the desk and with a final push reached the finish line. I looked further down the hallway scanning for the next destination but I had already decided. I stood tall, took a step back and sat down in the wheelchair behind me. That was quite enough of that. I was exhausted and at 49 I’m way too practical to push things too far. My Rocky Balboa moment had either just happened or it would have to wait for another day. I was breathing and moving and that’s more than than I had done in a month.

From there the therapist wheeled me down the hall and around the corner to a spot that looked out a window. While the view was of the the VA Hospital on cloudy day it was nice to see trees and cars and trash dumpsters again. Susan and I sat for a while just looking out the window. Wondering when I might get to be out there.

When Tuesday morning rolled around we got word that the insurance company had denied the pre-approval for Baptist and thus ended any discussion of what rehab facility i would go to.

None.

The social workers were working with the doctor’s office on plan B (or C, I couldn’t really tell anymore.) This plan was for them to release me to home and get medical visits and physical therapy there. Questions came flying at us about the home situation but 2 of them were crucial to the plan. Would I need to climb any stairs to get to the places I need to get to? (No) Could someone be there 24/7 in case I fell or needed any help? (Yes)

When the word came that this plan had been approved we were in a bit of a shock. While it was exciting it was a little scary as I was so weak and incapacitated. We didn’t have a lot of time to think about it though. Things were happening quickly. The rest of the morning was a flurry of activity in getting me ready to leave. I put on real clothes for the first time in a month. (Underwear never felt so good.) Medicine was doled out and paperwork was signed.

Shortly after lunch a wheelchair and driver showed up at my door. Susan went to bring the car around and I was rolled out of the room and down the hall toward the elevators. When we reached the ground floor my driver wheeled me to a spot facing outside where the cars would pull up to the loading zone. I watched others who were also leaving as they got into their cars to be carried away to what I presume is their own homes. When I saw Susan pull up I told the wheelchair driver that that was my ride and he rolled me out into the unseasonably warm January air. He helped me into the car and wished me well.

On the afternoon of January 17 — a full thirty days after the start of the longest, craziest month of my life — we drove out of the UAMS parking lot.

I was finally going home.

Tim Van Dusen

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