I’ve grown up.
I found a room in the regular hospital.
They said it could happen quickly—and it did.
Almost between bites of dinner.
ICU was oddly comfortable. Spacious, in a clinical way.
Yes, it was noisy, and at times it was… dramatic.
Very dramatic. People die in ICUs.
But here’s what I can say with full sincerity:
the staff was extraordinary.
Doctors, nurses, the entire hospital crew—professional, attentive, and kind.
They carried weight I can’t quite describe.
Then—just like that—I was moved to gen-pop.
(With a faint heart-tinged aftertaste.)
Physical therapy still visits,
but now there are new characters in the hallway.
The patient next to me is an escape artist.
“Where are you going now?”
“Please get back in bed.”
“And where did you find those cigarettes?”
“You can’t have cigarettes in here!”
This is when the Action Folks descend.
Physical therapists. Dietitians. Diabetes educators.
Pick your specialist—
or don’t pick, they’ll all show up anyway.
My future, apparently, belongs to the Action Folks.
Except…
I can’t get a BiPAP machine.
Even though I’ve already been diagnosed with sleep apnea.
Why?
Because I haven’t done the official sleep study.
So I’ll need to come back.
Sleep in their lab.
Then, and only then, will I qualify for a machine that might help me breathe at night.
In the meantime, I’m waiting to be transferred.
To a skilled nursing care facility.
Where the real work of physical therapy begins.
Recovery, it turns out, is not just a process—
it’s a bureaucratic relay.
But hey—
I’m out of ICU.
That’s something.
A Work Progressing 