Part of my "novel"

I promised to include in my posts part of my novel. An exerpt follows:

How did I end up here? What am I to learn? My grandfather taught by example: God will never give me more than I can handle without giving me an escape from the problem. I have got to find "the window". It's a weird place. I am at a rehabilitation facility after yet another exacerbation of my MS. I was sent to the hospital initially by a caregiver who evaluated me to have a low blood pressure and a even lower body temperature. The ambulance took me to a local hospital. I am all alone and scared. The blood results showed a multitude of problems: low thyroid, anemia, heart concerns, low B12, low blood sugar. Generally, I was a mess. After stabilizing me, I was transferred to a rehabilitation facility. My first roommate was an older very sweet lady.

My roommate had packed all her belongings and was so excited to go "home". She was waiting for her daughters to take her home. They never came. Why? She was so down, but she went on to bed. During the night, I heard her thrashing around. This was unusual. I called out to her; no answer. She continued to thrash around, so I pushed the call button to have someone check on her. After what seemed like hours, a CNA came in. I was told to not worry; she was just having a bad dream. The unrest continued. I saw her outstretched frail arm through the curtain that divided our room. Suddenly, there was a crash. All of the things on her bedside table hit the floor. I pushed the call button again. Someone finally came into our room after I yelled out for help. Observing all the commotion scared me. No one seemed to know what to do. An RN finally came in. She uttered a string of expletives. Apparently, my roommate was having a seizure. She was immediately given an injection to stop the seizure. It was only after the injection was it determined that she was a diabetic; her blood sugar was dangerously low. An ambulance was summoned. The paramedics came quickly. I still remember the chaos. My roommate was whisked away. The paramedics were snickering. When I asked them to explain the situation, I was told that the anti-seizure injection was the worst thing to do. Her diabetes should have been documented in her chart, and the sugar level should have been checked first. I still remember one paramedic telling me the lack of correct treatment was not unusual; I was told to be assertive about my treatment. This warning was not the last time a medical team member uttered these words. Was this the result of being old?
My first roommate never returned. The lost daughters appeared one day to retrieve my roommate's possessions. They did tell me that she survived, and she was going to a new facility. That same morning, the nurse practitioner came in to evaluate me. He was very caring and professional; I was relieved. He said that not many residents had the potential for leaving this facility. He encouraged me to fight. I soon discovered what he meant.

I became the mouthpiece for those who couldn't or wouldn't intervene in their treatment.


Even though this attempt at a novel will probably never be published; just putting the words on paper is therapeutic.