We moved to the Ronald McDonald House, and it was a challenging process. We had lots of stuff, lots of stairs, and a son who was feeling significantly less than stellar. So, he crashed on the bed and I climbed the hill with my arms fully loaded, climbed the stairs to our room, put away stuff, then repeated...multiple times.
But the physical challenge of moving was not what bothered me. It's funny, but I really struggled emotionally. It finally dawned on me, that in the last four weeks, I slept at home maybe one of those weeks. And I won't get back to my very own bed until sometime later this month. But it isn't my own comfy bed that is the problem, it is the sense of home. At the hotel, we had a kitchen, living room, separate bedrooms, and a bathroom. It wasn't home, but it resembled home in its set up. Here at the RMH, we are basically in a communal living arrangement with a bedroom that we share (think hotel room). No one talks to anyone here, yet we all share the same communal space, so it is just not homey. They try to make it so, but it just isn't.
Family is one of those difficult to define concepts. You have this emotional bond with the people who share your space, and you are accepted and loved because of that bond. It doesn't matter where that home is, but knowing that your family is there is sufficient. And knowing that they love you irregardless of whether you are having a bad day is beyond priceless.
So, here we are in the RMH, close to the hospital...the best possible scenario. We are totally settled before the surgery. But all I want is to be home.