Home again

For those of you who may be curious, and I'd be one of you, the removal of my right leg six days ago resulted in a weight loss of a little over twenty pounds. That's not what it would be for most men my height and (previous) weight of 5' 9", 180, because the leg was seven inches shorter than the left, the difference being in the femur, and the calf muscles were fit but not nearly as developed as those of the left leg.

A night view from a hospital corridor.

 A furious nor'easter tore through the region and made it impossible for either of my brothers to pick me up the day of my release from the hospital, so I spent an extra day and night there using it as a sort of hotel, but one where they come by and give you medicine and take your vital signs now and then. Late at night, I put on my regular clothes and crutched through some of the halls to get out of the room and get some exercise. Nurses and others glanced up at me from their work stations, but none took action. I could see by their faces they were thinking, "Not my problem, this guy," which was fine with me.
Now I'm back in the house. Kind sisters-in-law did much cleaning and reorganizing. Most of it is for the good, but some little things I was sentimental about got tossed. A favorite juice glass, a liquor my late mother liked that I'd have a few sips of once or twice a year. But I am grateful, overall.
It takes longer to heal when you get old. Nylon stitches irritate. Making breakfast and taking a shower—sitting down—are productions. All this I've been through before, so I know it will improve in time and become normal. But still.
Mustn't whine, though. Got to soldier on.