QUARANTINED

THE PLAN has been for me to move to what is known as "Assisted Living" when my 100 Medicare days are used up in the Skilled Nursing area. It's an itty-bitty room, presumably all that's needed in one's latter years. True enough, I suppose, but 'twill be a challenge to change my collecting ways. I'm trying to remember how I longed for a gypsy wagon. This could be an answer to that prayer, lacking the wheels.

The day after my Medicare help expired for this particular illness, I went to a dermatologist who diagnosed my itchy rash as a case of the scabies. Thus the quarantine. No more tootling around the Manor halls, calling in at the library or the tea room. It's a form of being grounded or put into what my mother used to refer to as "the scold chair".

Anyone who steps into the room must first don a silly looking yellow gown and pull on gloves. It doesn't much make people want to visit.

Another week must pass before I find out if I can move forward.

Meanwhile, Tim has been helping get Room 30 in order. There are still pictures to be hung. Unless I get rid of some, they will go from floor to ceiling, too much of a muchness. The shop letters have been installed on what I think might be called a soffit, the borrowed hospital bed has been replaced with a Tempur-pedic twin bed and I'm just itching to get in there. 

Literally.