Yesterday, I buzzed around the house fairly happily.

While it sucked, I had convinced myself that I would be moved to the Charis Center by the weekend.
It would be inpatient, awesome, and I could pull myself together more. After all, I didn’t start to feel better until I was confined to the hospital for multiple days. Surely, after a bit of insurance wrangling, I’d be inpatient at Charis before the weekend.

I wanted the house to be fairly clean before that happened. Out came the broom, cleaners, and whatever I could do to clean the house. It helps Jason so he wouldn’t have so much to do and it would help me as I knew I wasn’t leaving in total disorganization and my efforts would help care for him.

Mom stopped by and I tried to convey just how hopeful and grateful I am.

Around thee, I was told Charis no longer takes inpatient. At four, my good will and outlook disappeared. At five, I could barely move. I suffered on the couch from four onward waiting for Jason to return.

When I stayed at the Selah House, I was six years younger, weighed more than I am now, and didn’t have arthritis. I didn’t have the potential heart problems and other issues I have now.

Over the past year, multiple people and organizations looked for an inpatient place that would take Medicare. I know there wasn’t any.

But my stay at the hospital scared me. It also showed that I could improve when I was confined and had constant care — or at least as what could be considered ‘constant’ and/or ‘care’ at a busy hospital.

I pinned a lot of hope and dread on the Charis Center and… all of that poofed.

Mom, Jason, little sister… everyone… I know they’re there. But when I can’t swallow a small piece of bread or even turkey because my throat tightens up so much. I gag. I toss it back up and feel like I can’t breathe. There’s not a lot I or they can do.

And I feel so guilty imposing on their lives.
I know they say I’m not. I may not even be a problem but my perception that I am is something I can’t get around.

At least if I was away for a while they could live and know I’d still be keeping my promise to get better.

But no.
I’m stuck. My life is a lot like my throat right now. Narrow, tight, painful, and I can’t breathe.