Now that she could help herself turn to one side or the other and she could get to the edge of the bed, they removed her critical condition title. We had been there eight days and she was finally out of the woods according to them. It was now time to think about where she would go for rehabilitation. It was approaching the weekend of 4th of July and to get anyone on the phone over the long holiday was nearly impossible. Jolly Guy insisted I bring her to a rehab at home, but I would have to wait three days before I could arrange that. The hospital suggested I send her to the rehab they work with and since they had been so very knowledgeable and helpful and perfect really up until this point I didn’t see why we would wait. Jolly Guy was not happy and of course we ended up in a fight over the phone. He was screaming at me to do something and how I needed to call this person or demand something from that person. I snapped and yelled back “I’m here alone and I’m doing the BEST I can!” All the decisions were on me. Even though Gingham was around, he too allowed all major life decision be up to me being I had made them for the last eighteen years. I was not going to be made to feel bad or guilty that I wasn’t at home when my child needed care now and not in four days so we could be close to home. I understood he wanted us home and I wasn’t all that happy about staying another two to three weeks, but I saw no choice. She was able to be moved the following morning to the rehab. She would begin to get the care she needed and she would begin to recover. That was my main focus. Not getting home to jolly guy, not making sure I slept next to him or that he wasn’t alone. My focus was my child being able to walk again. Being able to get in and out of the bed. To wipe herself and bathe herself and learn to be functional again no matter where we did it or how long it took. I don’t think I was being unreasonable and I was certainly not going to let him make me feel like a schmuck after all I’d been through. Enough. I got off the phone and it was decided. She would stay at the hospital rehab and we would begin the heeling process. I followed the ambulance that took her from the hospital to the rehab through what looked like a scene straight out of the HBO show The Wire. It was a depressed area and it made me nervous and I definitely stood out. I stood 5’9″ tall with blond hair and a tan that was peeling. I had out-of-state plates in a nice car and all I could think of was getting mugged or car jacked. That’s all I needed. I reminded myself that nobody gave a shit about me and that they were all making their own way through life. Once we arrived at the rehab she was brought to her room where she had a roommate. An older woman who had also been hit by a car. She had been walking out her front door when a car jumped the curb and ran over her and four other people. She was stuck under that car for almost thirty minutes while they waited for paramedics to arrive. She was the nicest woman ever. We became instant friends with her, my daughter and I and she too would call me ma. She was twice my age, but she still called me ma in her southern accent. The scary part was over, now the hard part would begin. I knew my hard-headed daughter was not going to make it easy for anyone to help her, but they didn’t let her attitude stop her. She was stubborn, but not as stubborn as the nurses, physical therapists and assorted medical practitioners. They pulled no punches and didn’t let her get away with shit. She was going to have to do the work in order to get better, no matter how much she hemmed and hawed. I knew after that first day that I made the right decision with having her go to this rehab. It was the right place for her and I drove back to the hotel that night content with my decision to keep her down here, hundreds of miles away from home, away from the rest of our family and with just me. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.