COVID SOUP in Postcards 4

  • Feb. 25, 2022, 8:30 a.m.
  • |
  • Public

alt text

Just as the family gathered this last Christmas Eve, I started coughing. Not at all a boring cough. The family went on alert, they gathered me up, put me in Margot’s little SUV, and hauled me up to the hospital. For some reason, I only lightly objected.

The food was terrible.

Somewhere along the line, I was told that I had pneumonia probably from the bit of corn I had inhaled a few days earlier. After days of pills and doctor visits, I was discharged to Balboa Nursing and Rehab, over my repeated objections, where I was warmly welcomed by all those who remembered me from last time.

The speech therapist insisted on machine macerating all my food. It all looked like vomit on a plate. G made some tactful phone calls, and a V8 appeared on my lunch tray. Marvelous. Otherwise, the food was terrible. Then again, I was a pretty fat old lady.
After a week in a three person room, I came down with Covid. Frankly I was a bit upset as I had carefully gotten all three shots. The food was still terrible. No therapists in the Covid wing. I slept a lot and didn’t eat much beginning a double battle to get regular food and to go home.

The doctor said I could go home as soon as I was let out of the Covid ward.

(To be continued)


Last updated February 25, 2022


Loading comments...

You must be logged in to comment. Please sign in or join Prosebox to leave a comment.