“When can I go home?” Asked in a variety of ways and with the same intensity, the question comes back tens times in an hour as I sit visiting my aunt and must be asked as many times of staff at the care facility.
Each time I explain that she will have to heal. The knee is bad. The tibia and fibula are bad. Patience so she heals as much as possible; so she can go home. But, as with anyone with short term memory loss, she forgets my logical explanations. Repeat them once or ten times much of it is forgotten or ignored. She has been ringing the beeper for assistance so she did remember that.
The house, her house and stuff, is a magnet of security. It is her love affair of decades. It is a safe haven from the world that does not require socializing, travel, strangers, organization and structure. She does look better now. Healthier. They do pamper her and primp her. She acknowledges it, but “when can I go home?” remains.