I seriously did not order pot roast for dinner

Hospital dinner’s gotten worse than usual, tonight. Good thing I have willing friends who get takeout and have squirreled away fruit, water, and Blenheim ginger ales (God bless you, Mr NathanMehlwater) from previous meals.

Matt Pierotti has been visiting for the weekend, while Eliza and Ro Browning and Sarah Shectman came down for the day. Kate’s sitting next to me eating Pirate Booty (“Thar be good!") and looking radiant.

My arm strength is improving – I’m able to hold my butt off the wheelchair seat for several seconds – and allegedly my leg strength is, too, per my physical therapist. Useful sensation below the knees and wrists remains stubbornly absent. I remain hopeful: not as optimistic as my physicians, but hopeful.

If I leave rehab when our insurance wants me to, I’ll be living in whatever our new apartment turns out to be as of March 7. I’ll presumably be doing out-patient rehab, followed by a return to work once my glacial typing speed (and trademark crack wit and unchanged telephone repartee) becomes sufficiently useful to WNYC once more. Hopefully quickly.

July, though… July looks to be a banner month.

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