No, I am not referring to Hurricane Irene. (Which, oddly enough, I did not predict.)
I refer to my husband getting kicked out of rehab.
They like to call it Graduation Day.
We like to call it: all insurance will cover.
He went for his very last workout at Cardio Rehab, and then, complete with Cap and Gown, came the pictures.
Here he is, The Graduate.
|If he's The Graduate, that must make me Mrs. Robinson. Keh keh kachoo.|
And, the class from which he is graduating:
If this class had a valedictorian, it would be The Big Bison, according to his classmates. All the guys came up and told me how much he'd encouraged and inspired them to do their best.
|Note the Georgia Bulldogs T-shirt, carefully selected for Graduation Day. Don't think he didn't think about that.|
When I think where he was when he entered this class, I almost shudder. It's still a little too fresh. I had to drive him, because he was still on pain meds. I sat in the waiting room and worried that the phone in there was going to ring and they were going to tell me that he'd had another event.
But he didn't, and we're thankful. Some of his classmates have had two or three runs at rehab, and, of course, our goal is for him to never, ever darken that door again.
Nobody wants to go through rehab again.
God bless the rest of his class members as they finish out their time in rehab.
We remain grateful for the grace that has been shown to us on this journey.