Ok, so you may be shocked to hear - but yes, I'm in rehab. I
should clarify, however, that 'rehab' does not only treat drug and alcohol
related problems here in Spain. It also treats physiological problems - which
is the reason I have been admitted. Upon being "sentenced to 5 weeks of rehab",
Mother soared to the floor in horror; disgraced with her sudden alcoholic
daughter. I had to explain to her that it was for my neck injury instead, which
took a good 15 minutes.
My first appointment goes smoothly; just an initiation with
my doctor, Francisco. Oh - how fortunate; he is 30-something and strikingly
good looking (according to Mother), with the typical 'tall, dark and handsome'
traits. Mother insists on asking numerous, insignificant questions about
anything at all (I am translator again... yay) and finds it quite the struggle
when his assistant nurse tries to usher her out before his next appointment.
"I don't like to be rushed!" Mother quips.
My next appointment, a few weeks later, is to begin the
therapy. As we arrive, I register at the desk (which takes around 3 hours as
the wonderful Spanish female
receptionists are not exactly the most efficient, swift workers I know). I am
then told to wait in the waiting room with the others. Mother is still here
beside me for moral support upon my first visit, dressed as if she were
attending a royal garden party (sunglasses still on and the diamante pumps
making yet another outing).
"Where is he, darling?" Mother asks.
"Where is who?"
"Francisco,
sweetie! Obviously!" Mother looks around, urgently. She also gets off her
chair and saunters down the corridor, nonchalantly, peering into the offices!
I urge her to sit back down and she does, reluctantly.
Five minutes later, my female therapist appears with her
clipboard and calls out a few names, including mine. She then proceeds to
explain the process for today's session and asks us to follow her. I am quickly
translating the information for Mother - as she is demanding to know what is
happening. I reiterate what my therapist told us; that we would have some kind
of electrotherapy thing and then go into the gym for physiotherapy exercise.
"Ooooh! Fantastic, a gym! So it's like a retreat, marvellous!
I wonder where the swimming pool is, I didn't see one outside. Perhaps they
only have an indoor pool..." Mother is now very excited about rehab.
Mother is edging forward with me and our small group as the
therapist looks at her with suspicion. I presume it is because we, the
patients, are all dressed in gym gear. Mother is evidently dressed quite the
opposite. Then someone says something and the therapist explains that Mother
cannot come further than this door we are hovering at because it's 'treatment
time' (and of course we are not allowed 'observers' etc during the process). I
steadily translate this to Mother and she does not take it very well.
"Why?" She asks, with an aggressive confidence.
"Que?" The therapist asks.
I see I am going to have to be the translator again.
Mother is not accepting any of the very reasonable
explanations.
"I am her Mother!"
Seems to be her only counter-argument. It does not do well in altering the
rules of the rehab centre, funnily enough. So Mother withdraws her glare and
spins around.
Right at this moment, Francisco appears from around the
corner and Mother finds herself a few centimetres from his presumably toned
torso.
"Ah! Francisco! Hola,
darling! I am going to have to wait for
Charlotte-Elizabeth whilst she has her therapy, that's right isn't it? So -
where is the spa?"
"Uhh.... sorry, what, Madam?" Francisco, bless
him, is struggling to understand Mother. Not only due to the language, mind
you.
"The spa, darling? Can you tell me where it is? So I
can relax by the pool with a magazine. Do they serve cava there? Ooooh, are the
magazines all in Spanish or do you have 'Hello' magazines? I usually read 'The
Lady', actually....." Mother trails off as she sees Francisco's confused
expression not changing in the slightest.
I smile apologetically at Francisco and tell him not to
worry; I will explain the reality of this situation to her.
"Mother, this is not a spa. This is a rehab centre. I
am not an A-list celebrity overcoming drug addiction. There are no detox juices
or masseurs. This is a hospital. I suggest you wait outside on a bench. Please try to stay outside, okay?
Francisco is definitely busy, he won't have time to join you either." I say,
a little stressed that my fellow physio group have already been ushered through
and I am stuck here bringing my deluded Mother back down to earth.
Mother shuffles off, a little disgruntled. Eventually I
catch up to my group and I begin my therapy session.
One hour later, I emerge from the centre to find a lady of
leisure spread out, legs up, on a bench in the sun. It is Mother; her posh
summer dress has been hiked up above her knees - for more efficient tanning
purposes. She has obtained a straw hat from somewhere, which is perched on her
head. Beneath which are her sunglasses over
the top of her reading glasses. She has a book in one hand and an ice cream
in the other. It looks as though she is a resident at a top spa in Hampshire,
if it weren't for the cement-churning lorry behind her.
xoxo
 |
| Ready for the luxury spa. |
