Rehab, Reality, and the Will to Go Home

    

“Recovery isn’t a straight path—
It’s a thousand quiet decisions
To get up again,
Even when the world doesn’t feel like your own.”

    At the end of January—or maybe the beginning of February—I was discharged from Littleton Hospital and admitted to the rehabilitation wing at Country Village nursing home. It wasn’t my first choice. But it was close to home, had immediate availability, and, importantly, accepted my insurance.

    My experience at Country Village was mixed. As someone living with Lewy Body Dementia, the thought of entering a nursing home—short-term or not—was terrifying. I didn’t know what to expect, and what I found there ended up shaping my view of nursing homes in general.

First Impressions and the Fog of Arrival

    The transition was jarring. I was transported by ambulance—surrounded by strangers—feeling foggy and weak. Arriving at Country Village, I was met by several staff members, including Michele and possibly Caitlyn, who jumped right into intake questions and physical assessments. I was overwhelmed. I felt more like a task than a person, and for a moment, I just wanted to turn around and leave.

    Michele reassured me: my stay was temporary and necessary for my recovery. Still, it was hard to let go of the fear that I had somehow lost control of my future.

    That first night was brutal. My roommate was nonverbal, preferred the room completely dark, and kept the TV on around the clock. He was restless, turning on the light and calling out for the nurse throughout the night. I didn’t sleep at all.

A Rough Start and a Determined Mindset

    The next day, I met with staff for our intake meeting. I told them boldly that I’d be out of there in a week. They smiled, gently, and told me that two weeks was a more realistic goal. And two weeks is what it became.

    Those early days were tough. I had to ask for help with basic tasks—using the bathroom, getting dressed—and that was difficult. I’ve always valued my independence and privacy, and this challenged both.

Routine, Therapy, and Small Victories

    Gradually, I found comfort in the routine. I liked having breakfast at the same time each day. I started dressing myself again, preparing for the day ahead. Therapy sessions—physical and occupational—were scheduled throughout the day with time in between for meals and rest.

    Speech therapy never happened, even though it was ordered. Because I could swallow okay, it seems like that box was checked off without a second thought. Still, I appreciated the rhythm of the day. It gave me a sense of normalcy in a place that didn’t feel normal.

    One Sunday, a male nurse quietly spent time helping me with exercises for my arms and shoulders. That moment stands out. His help made a real difference in my pain levels and gave me a small but important boost in mobility. It was a turning point.

Staff Who Made a Difference

    There were two main groups of people involved in my care: the rehab staff and the nursing staff.

    Let’s start with the rehab team—they were outstanding. The occupational therapists, physical therapists, and their aides were kind, respectful, and attentive. They listened. They let me set my own pace. They encouraged me without pushing too hard, and they always met me where I was—whether physically or emotionally.

    Denise, one of the physical therapist assistants, stands out. She checked in often. If I looked exhausted, she didn’t push me. Sometimes we’d just sit and talk instead of doing a session. That simple respect and understanding made a huge difference.

The Hardest Night

    Not every part of the stay was positive. The 3-to-11 p.m. nursing assistants, in particular, were a problem. One night, early in my stay, I witnessed them yelling at a fellow resident—a woman with dementia who I happened to know from my hometown. They escalated her distress and then mocked her afterward. It was heartbreaking and infuriating.

    That same night, I needed help. I rang the call bell several times but no one came. I could hear them in the next room laughing and playing cards. I was still weak, but I tried to take care of myself—and I ended up falling between the toilet and my wheelchair.

    I yelled for help. When someone finally came, she was not helpful. I didn’t want to be touched, but I was stuck. I’d had an accident, and everything—me, the room—was a mess.

    Eventually, I was helped back to bed. But I was shaken, angry, embarrassed, and on the edge of being completely shut down. I had nightmares and terrible hallucinations all night.

    I ended up reporting that incident and some things changed – for me – for the better. I was able to advocate for myself (and at the same time for the lady down the hall), and once Michele found out what happened she shook the place up hard. However, not everyone in the nursing home can – or is willing to advocate for themselves because of fear of reprisal or because they simply cannot. What happens to them?

That night changed how I saw that place. Honestly, it changed how I see most nursing homes. No one should ever have to go through that.

The Bigger Picture

    We often say that nursing homes are where people “live.” But if they are homes, then we need to treat them like that. People should feel safe, respected, and well cared for. I didn’t always feel that way—and I know I’m not alone. Our system for elder and disability care is broken. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. We can, and must, do better.

Closing Thoughts

    Despite everything, I never wanted to give up. My goal wasn’t to go back to how things were before—I just wanted to get strong enough to go home. And I did.

    It was a humbling experience. I learned what matters, who I could count on, and what still needs to change in how we care for one another—especially those of us with dementia. And I’m still learning. Still advocating. Still pushing forward on this journey—one step at a time.