Finally, we’re home. After ten weeks, six days and 12 hours of exile, we are back in our house. We arrived two weeks ago, to a house filled with boxes. All our worldly possessions stacked in the dining room and office. No phone, no TV, and no internet. I go to the linen closet (did not have to empty) and pull out fresh linens and make the bed.

Yes, it’s true, we’re home at last. Hubby and I get a burst of adrenalin and go about some unpacking for several hours. He’s happy, he’s moving, and he’s using his wheelchair like a forklift to move the heavy boxes. Then we rest, sitting around the kitchen table, smashed together we watch the portable 7-in. TV we have for hurricanes. An audible sigh of relief.  Next is bedtime. Yes, he did lose a lot of strength in the motel room, for the first time in months he had to use his slide board to get into bed.

As the days fly by, unpacking, reorganizing, making things more accessible for Hubby, we see some improvement. There is progress with both with his strength returning and our house starting to look like home. Day three in the new neighborhood, I have to call 911 for Hubby. Terrified of new city, new hospital, new doctors; I, who never cry, am in tears.

After the paramedics listen to me recite his medical history, they kindly offer to take us to Memorial Hospital. It’s 20 miles away, but his records are all there. I tearfully tell them to take us to the nearest hospital; this is where we live now. I follow the ambulance, hoping to memorize the route and not get lost. Luckily, it was a minor yet very painful ailment.

The doctor tends to Hubby’s problem and releases him with a follow-up with a specialist. I find the new hospital is only one mile from our house! The hospital seemed fine; in fact the ER was much nicer than Memorial. This could work.

We continue putting our house, and in a way, our lives back together. Sorting through all of our things, I come upon little treasures to brighten the days. A card from Mama, an old letter from my son when he was in the military; and so it goes until Voila, it looks like home, it feels like home.

Yet when I look out the window or walk onto the front deck nothing is the same! Where are my friendly neighbors? Where are all the folks that stop and chat with Hubby each day? Where is my grocer, my pharmacist, my church? A very odd sensation that can not be expressed; it feels a bit like the twilight zone.

Hubby’s good humor is returning. He sings his silly songs; he talks in his funny voice. We laugh together; we explore the new area together. He actually asks to go to the store with me! Wheelchair outings are now allowed. A whole new beginning for us in the comfort of our own home; we can grow and learn how to deal with his immobility together.

We’re off to meet with a new Primary tomorrow. I need to get him settled with a new doctor, have his records all sent to this new city. Hope Hubby likes her; it’ll be a big worry off my shoulders.

So, I’m back. Sitting here at my computer trying to catch up on all my friends at Caregiving; so many stories, so many changes and new folk to meet, it’s good to be home. Thank you all for your support during the dark days at Motel 6, my occasional visits here  helped me keep what little is left of my sanity.