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Fred,

Time moves differently here at Ocean Vista Rehab. The calendar says I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks, but it feels like an eternity of that movie Groundhog Day; endless days of meds, PT, and sitting around. That’s the worst part, the sitting and waiting. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin and I can’t stand my own helplessness. It makes me want to hurl and scream. And hurl again.

They say I’m making progress, but not enough to release me this week like they were supposed to. They said the insurance company approved another three weeks and I have a bad feeling there might be even more time here on the other side.

On one hand, I’m glad to have unfettered access to painkillers, but I don’t know how much more I can take it. Everything is whirling into itself like a smoothie in slow motion and I think all that TV might be burning holes into my retinas.

It helps to have distractions. I need more distractions. What I really want is to get outside on my own. A nurse will sometimes roll me along the cement paths that go by the garden. But I long to walk on my own again and far, far away from anyone else in this insane asylum. I wanna keep walking until I hit water.

There is one salvation — the puzzle group that Rosie introduced me to the other day.

It’s run by a youngish (I don’t know, 35? 45? 48?) guy named Brady. He’s a real nervous sort. Shaky. Looking towards the door like he’s expecting someone else to show up.

Actually, I don’t know if he runs it as much as he’s just always in that room, puzzling, and people decided to join him. The nurse manning the desk there always has a “Soothing Sounds Collection” CD on full tilt, so nobody can really talk. It’s more meditative than that bogus class The Director runs, that’s for damn sure.

Of course, you know that Rosie has been dragging me back to that meditation class every week. I’ve told her I have no interest, and that she’s fully capable of going on her own, but for some stupid reason, she can’t get herself to do it. Maybe that’s why she’s here – she’s incapable of doing anything on her own.

That’s a little harsh, but that woman will do anything to bring attention to herself, especially from The Director, short of throwing herself in front of a train. But you know she’d threaten to do it. You know, I don’t even understand why Rosie is here. She goes to all the regular appointments, and the exercise classes, and the social events, but as far as I can tell, she could live independently.

I tried asking about it, and before you chide me, I was VERY NICE about it! I just asked her how the PT staff here was and if they helped her recover from her injury (of which there is no sign of now).

Let me tell you what, she got snippy with me about it! She said something like, that’s none of your business! I have a whole personal care team here that I would die without, yada yada yada. She even stopped talking to me for a whole day, until she remembered that she can’t go anywhere on her own.

So that’s something to keep in my hat for when she drives me nuts again.

I do wonder about that Brady kid, though. It was like he was more shell-shocked than recovering from something in particular. I’ll have to ask my PT what kind of patients they have here. I thought this place was for physical recoveries, but I’ve seen enough stuff that makes me curious if they take people recovering from addictions and other stuff too – maybe mental episodes.

Can they do that? You’d think they’d need more specialty care to provide for that. I can promise you that meditation classes from The Director are certainly nothing special. Unless you’re a front row groupie like Rosie.

Well, keep me in your cold, dead thoughts, Fred. I gotta get moving again if it’s the last thing I do. I want to walk in those gardens before winter. Not that I’ll be here that long.

Heck, by then I might be joining the Olympic team for speedwalking. Unless they have speedcrawling?

Much love,

Ags

Hey hun!

It’s so good to hear from my world-traveling Grandkiddo. Things are going great at Ocean Vista, thanks for asking. I’ll tell ya, I was nervous that I was going to be locked in a room or something, but it’s not like that at all. When I first got here, everyone was very nice and took me on a tour, showing me where they do things like bingo and, get this, there’s even a meditation class.

That sounds like something that you’d do in your travels to Bali or something! Speaking of, where are you in the world these days? Your mom and dad told me that you’re on the move again but I don’t think they knew where you were gonna end up. Just make sure someone does, hun. I know it’s not something you think about until you’re up a creek. Take it from your old Grams.

Being alone is not a problem here, I’ll tell you that much. I have a roommate, Rosie, that’s always eager to see me in the morning. Why? Jesus knows why. I think she’s waiting to loot my stuff if I expire. I kid, I kid. Kind of. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here soon, and at least I can recruit her to push me around this old joint.

I will say, the grounds here are GORGEOUS. It’s enough to make you willing to hitch yourself to a horrible and corrupt oil tycoon just for the privilege of rolling around in the rose garden while shouting at someone to bring you G&Ts and tiny cucumber sandwiches. Although, and I can’t say this for certain, but I think the dregs of inbred blue bloods still linger on the grounds.

What I mean to say is that “The Director” is quite the character (you know what I mean, someone who’s never had to make nice to stay employed) and I’ve heard that he inherited this place from his father, and decided to turn it into a nursing home a while ago. You’d think he’d want to make this place his home, but instead he built a castle for himself literally a stone’s throw away.

Yes, I mean an actual castle, but not an ancient, crumbling one on the TV. This is more like something that was inspired by the Playmobil set you had as a kid. Well, I guess in some respects, us sick and lame are his oil well and he probably wants to keep an eye on it.

He’s also the one that leads those meditation classes. I think it’s a little odd but everyone here loves him. Maybe he’ll grow on me. But, my dear, I have to finish up because they’re closing the computer lounge soon and Rosie is taking me to her puzzle club. Finally! An activity that doesn’t involve an inordinate amount of humming and moaning, like in that goddamn meditation class!

Love,

Grams

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Emails from Grams is returning from a long hiatus. When we last heard from her, she was bopping around with new friends, and a potential love interest, and getting into activism. But you never know where a year will bring you, and now Grams is in an unfamiliar place and no longer has control of the things that she might have once taken for granted. I hope you’ll follow along, share with a friend, and please subscribe if you enjoy!

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Fred, my dearly dead Fred,

I always knew that holding onto your email account well after your death would be good for more than signing up for free trials of Netflix and making lurker Facebook accounts.

I just never expected to be emailing you from the computer lounge at a nursing home, rehabbing a fractured pelvis. At this old age, I should have known better than to clamber up onto that ladder to water the porch plants. I can almost hear you scolding me now. I wish I could hear all your smart-ass comments.

Jesus Marie, it smells like bad cheese in here.

I just need someone to kvetch to. I don’t want to bother the girls, I’ve haven’t reached out to Trevor for a while and I can’t talk to the kids about this stuff, not after they worked so hard to get me into this hellhole. I mean, this very nice nursing home. Rehab center. Experimental lab rat maze. Whatever it is, it’s for the birds.

They mean well, they do. I mean, where else am I supposed to go? I need an obnoxious amount of minding and everyone’s so busy and spread out these days. Besides, I’m not going to be here long. At least I hope I’m not.

I swear on butterscotch I am not going to get stuck here.

I felt like a horse being transferred from the racing track to glue factory when they shlept me here from the hospital. Forgive me, the pain medication is wearing off and I’m not due for a re-up until after I get wheeled back from the mystery meat buffet.

When I was being hauled here in the transport van, I had no choice but to watch as the estate loomed overhead, threatening to eat me whole. A nurse at the hospital told me Ocean Vista is an old mansion that was modified to house the infirm.

But the brick and mortar soul of this place cannot be changed. It still carries itself like a pursed-lipped housekeeper disapproving of the deliveries being made within sight of residents long departed.

The white columns look so stark and proud and if you only glanced at them, you would never notice the paint peeling off towards the bottom. I stared at the patches of grey wood as the driver stopped to chat with a nurse standing by the metal ramp leading up to the door.

I hardly heard their conversation as I stared at the crinkled cigarette butts stuffed into the crevices of the railing. Suddenly I felt a heart-crushing doubt that I would never see my own home, my own bed, or my own porch again. Probably ghosts.

The nurse passed us off to another staffer who led us down to my room, which was small despite the massive building it was housed in, probably not helped that I’m sharing it with a lunatic named Rosie.

Within the first hour of my being there she was trying to give me the 4-1-1 on everyone at the home and who gets handsy in the dining hall line and yadda yadda yadda. I had to stop her and explain that I was only here until I’m healed up enough to hobble out, and not a minute longer — and not just because my insurance will take me out back if I overstay.

Either that or I’ll roll myself off the cliff beyond the mansion, if only to get a glimpse of this ocean vista that I was promised. You know, fresh, salty air and the cries of seagulls fighting for your sandwich, and all that.

Well, it was certainly false advertising. I have to wheel myself, or get Rosie to wheel me down to the far end of the conservatory (Fred, can you believe it - a conservatory?!) to see a sliver of the beach way down beyond the edge of the cliff.

But do you know who I think must get an amazing view of the ocean? Whoever lives in the castle in the yard behind the mansion. Yes, I also thought I was hallucinating when I saw the turret sticking out of the trees. I had to break out some binoculars to see the ugly, squat fortress hunched over itself out there.

When I asked a nurse what the heck that thing in the woods was, and she breathlessly told me it was the Director’s house. The Director’s house? Why the heck would the director live so damn close to where his sausage is made (so to speak)?

Surely he owns a chunk of land or a town or a county somewhere else?

Or, who knows, maybe a bunch of drugged up patients being wheeled from physical therapy to doctor’s appointments make for quiet neighbors.

Don’t worry, Fred, the plot thickens! The other evening, Rosie dragged me to this meditation class in the ballroom that she said was supposed to be “uhh-mazing”.

The lights were dimmed and there was some hippy music playing in the background with incense burning. Blegh! It probably would have felt more like a hookah den if half the people there could actually make it onto the few pillows scattered on the ground.

But what caught my attention was the man sitting on the small stage in the back of the room. Or rather, the gaggle of women who surrounded him. From their guffaws, he must have been telling them the most hilarious joke in the world.

My dear, this is the kind of guy that would make your eyes roll. He has one of those boy-band haircuts, teeth that are too straight and too white, and skin way too orange to be natural. None of it hides the fact that he’s a man easily cascading into his early fifties. And yes, as you might have guessed, this freaking guy is “the Director”.

“Isn’t it so great that the Director takes so much interest that he leads the meditation classes?” Rosie asked me.

Great indeed. As the hens settled down into their seats, he stood up, raising his arms to address the crowd.

Listen, I don’t know squat about what a meditation class is supposed to be like. But, I’m pretty sure that it’s not supposed to start with a monologue from some clown talking about how great his community at Ocean Vista is and cracking inside jokes with the first-row groupies before launching into a “guided meditation”.

I did NOT participate because I don’t trust any of these asshats, least of all Rosie.

I would say it was on par with listening to two oldies spending their last days fighting over the remote control in the TV lounge.

Fred, I don’t know what it is exactly, but something is off at Ocean Vista. Sure, I’m a cynical old crone and I’m on a lot of pain medication, but I really, really need to get out of here.

As always, congrats on not having to deal with this shit.

Hope everything’s all wherever you are.

-Ags

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