I was a mess. People kept telling me the nursing home was my home now. I had to get used to it. I had to accept it. I knew I never would.
My first night there I met Alice, the admissions nurse. She became my friend. She talked to me, she listened to me, let me cry when I needed to. She helped me plot ways to escape. Alice put me to work. I ran errands for her. I remember one night looking for bed alarms and batteries for bed alarms. It took all evening, but I found them. It was fun. Alice helped me forget where I was. Thank you, Alice, for helping me get.through those first months at NHC.
I got used to living in a nursing home, Used to the routine, used to the staff, I made some good friends.
Living in a group home is a unique way to live. I live with two other women. We go our own way. I don't see them very much. Three women who were matched up as housemates.The criteria? Our shared disability.
What makes a house a home? In 2012 I wrote a blog post titled Home Is Where My Heart Is. https://confessionsofadisableddiva.blogspot.com/2012/10/home-is-where-my-heart-is.html In the post I talked about my memories of the holidays that I shared with my family at my house or theirs. It 's not my memories that made my house my home. It's the connections. It's shared memories, It is my family.
After I sprained my knee, my brother Bob, sat in my hospital room for an entire day so that I would not be alone. He did it because he cared. Caring. That's what makes a house a home. I have never forgotten that my brother did that for me. I never even thanked him. I hope he doesn't mind that I included that memory in this post.
Today is a difficult day. I miss my house, my mom and Lucie. My home will always be on Lansdowne Avenue in Southwest St. Louis. My house meant memories and connections. My house meant family
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