“Even though you’re still a few days from being discharged, you’re going to need to make a decision soon. Lots of patients enter a rehab facility, where they have access to physical therapy and around-the-clock care—things most patients don’t have at home.”

“How long would he have to be there?” my mother asked.

“It’s hard to say; every case is so different.” She handed us brochures, a picture of an elderly couple on the front, exercising in wheelchairs. “Some take weeks, some months.”

“No way.” I handed the pamphlet back to her. “Not even an option.”

Lying in another bed as uncomfortable as this one, surrounded by more white walls, and being served more inedible food wouldn’t help me heal. It would drive me fucking crazy.

“It’s not for everyone,” the social worker responded, slipping the paper into her folder.

“What are other options?” my mother asked.

She shifted her weight, moving the paperwork to her hip. “A wife, girlfriend”—she nodded toward my mother—“mom—someone constantly there until you’re back on your feet. But I must warn you, due to your neuropathy, you have a high fall risk.” She scratched her curly white hair. “That could be extremely detrimental to your healing, so you’ll need to be very careful about that, and you would have to schedule PT accordingly.”

“That’s it?” I asked her. “There’re no other options?”

“Well, there’s private care,” she said. “That’s always available.”

I heard my mother writing. “What does that entail?” she asked.

“You would hire a nurse that you would pay for out of pocket,” the social worker answered. “You can have them for an hour or twenty-four hours a day; it’s all based on your needs and budget.” She reached into the folder, handing us a sheet with several names printed on it. “Those are companies affiliated with the hospital, but there are many in the city; you’re welcome to use any of them.”

I put the paper on the table. “How much longer will I be in here?”

She glanced at the folder in her arms. “Your surgeon scheduled discharge for Friday—unless, of course, something changes.”

Two more days.

“It looks like your catheter came out this morning,” she continued. “Your progress with physical therapy has been slow, but we’re going to continue managing your pain and getting you up walking until it’s time for you to leave.”

Each attempt, I’d only taken a few steps before I couldn’t tolerate the agony anymore. Even sitting was excruciating. So far, the only position I could handle was flat on my back, and even that made me miserable.

“I used to tell all my patients, it’s a crawl, not a marathon …” She shrugged. “Now, it hurts to say those words despite how true they are.”

I wished the wind would push her back into the fucking hallway.