In this intimate October 1, 2019 reflection, Lyn Goffaux shares the raw, unpolished truth of coming home after a difficult stay in a nursing facility. She begins simply: “I’m home,” repeating it like a mantra as she tries to make peace with how fragile her body now feels after a stroke and weeks away. Lyn talks about the shock of realizing she is weaker than she expected, describing how walking with a rollator and even being pushed in a wheelchair at church left her exhausted and dependent on others in ways she never imagined.

Lyn reflects on her time in the nursing home with gratitude for the kindness of the staff, yet with sadness and discomfort about the condition of many residents around her. She notices how some people seem to be in a “second childhood,” and she marvels at the patience of the aides and nurses who care for them day after day. At the same time, she is deeply frustrated by the so-called “restorative” therapy program: a room full of “terrible equipment,” chronically short-staffed, with only one or two workers trying to serve everyone who might want or need rehabilitation. She explains how no one came to get her for therapy, how easy it was to just not go, and how that decision left her struggling to walk when she finally returned home.

Back in her own space on this October day, Lyn takes stock of her life and responsibilities. She talks candidly about money returning to her bank account, the reality of a twelve-thousand-dollar nursing home bill, and the need to call Julie to settle what she owes and even to figure out how to handle her tithing. There is a sense of sorting and prioritizing—of putting financial, spiritual, and practical matters in order—before she moves on to the next chapter at a place she calls Heartland. She doesn’t know exactly when she will go, but she knows there will be tests ahead, including proving that she can safely transfer from bed to chair to toilet on her own.

Lyn also turns to the people who give her life color. She mentions Lolo, neighbors like Jen and Sue, and Sue’s handwritten work on seventeen generations of genealogy. These small community connections and projects inspire her, even as her own body slows her down. Lyn talks about art—her pastels, which others call chalk—and about trying to create again in a group setting. The first day goes “fairly well,” but afterward her energy and ability falter. Still, she looks forward to bringing her beloved pastels, many inherited from Ally, into this next season of life, even as she plans to give some away.

She paints a vivid picture of the rooms she expects at Heartland: two long, narrow spaces with tall skinny windows, a little refrigerator that she hopes has a tiny freezer for ice cream, and just enough room for the furniture that really matters to her. She wrestles with what to bring and what to release—couches, rugs, plants—wanting comfort but also freedom to move her wheelchair. One bright spot is learning that the doctor’s office will give her cherished plants a new home, a small but meaningful answer to prayer.

Throughout this diary-like episode, Lyn weaves in family: a deeply personal update about Mary, who traveled to Spain for serious surgery after seizures and passing out, and who now faces a seven-year nerve healing journey and the end of her childbearing years. Lyn honors Mary’s three “handsome” children and rejoices that the youngest is talking clearly and potty trained at two. She dreams about a future summer when Mary and Jared might visit, mentally arranging beds, couches, and blow-up mattresses to make room for everyone in her home.

“Coming Home Weaker” is a tender, candid audio snapshot of aging, disability, faith, art, family, and the hard work of beginning again after illness. Lyn’s voice offers honesty without self-pity, gratitude without glossing over the pain, and hope that, little by little, she can grow stronger even as life keeps changing around her.

On September 19, 2019, Lyn Goffaux speaks into her recorder on what she knows will be her final day in the nursing home, capturing the fragile, hopeful space between dependence and returning to the familiar rhythms of home. Her words carry the quiet weight of someone who has waited a long time to reclaim her own space, her own routines, and her own decisions, even as she acknowledges that she will still need help to make that possible. She repeats to herself that tomorrow she goes home—back to her home—as if the phrase is both a promise and a grounding mantra amid all the logistics and uncertainties of this transition.

In this intimate reflection, Lyn lets us into the practical worries that ride alongside her anticipation: arranging caregivers, realizing that one person cannot be expected to work seven days a week, and accepting that she will have to discover, day by day, exactly how much support she truly needs once she is back in her own house. She mentions Sherry, the woman who will come over to help, and muses about how to pay her fairly, picturing Sherry mostly sleeping and watching TV during the quieter hours of her shift, an almost domestic, lived-in image of shared space and overlapping lives.

Finances form another thread, as Lyn visits the financial department and learns the facility is owed around fourteen thousand dollars, a daunting sum softened by her calm assurance: she has the money. She untangles confusion about a large investment with the help of Julie, then personally goes to clarify the details with the financial staff. Her visit makes a follow-up from Paul unnecessary, and she confirms what she already knew: she does not qualify for Medicaid. Rather than sounding defeated, Lyn comes across as an engaged decision-maker who understands her own situation and insists on being clearly heard.

Amid logistics, small human moments shine through: a staff member who thinks she recognizes Lyn from church, the quiet comfort of being seen as part of a community and not only as a patient. Lyn also describes her visitor, Jen Muller, who is blind and walks quickly when guided, and the two women’s intersecting limitations—one in a wheelchair, one unable to see—create a poignant image of mutual vulnerability and care.

As Lyn looks around her room, she narrates the simple work of closing out this chapter: emptying three drawers and a closet, clearing the little bedside piece, and slowly transforming what has been her makeshift office into a space she will soon leave behind. She sounds almost satisfied, as if each cleared drawer brings her one step closer to the door. Throughout, the refrain “tomorrow I go home” returns with both hope and realism. She does not promise to keep recording; instead, she leaves us with an honest, open-ended farewell and the powerful image of a woman reclaiming her home, her choices, and her sense of self at the threshold between institutional care and hard-won independence.

Recorded on Saturday September 14, 2019. Lyn mentions it's her friend Lola’s birthday. This entry finds Lyn Goffaux thoughtfully weighing her options as she prepares to leave the nursing home. After mentioning supper with Lola and a call to Julie to help calculate how much tithing she owes on recent funds, she turns to the practical question of where and how she will live next. She describes an assisted living facility connected to a hospital complex, just “not much over 2,000 dollars” a month, which would provide an unfurnished apartment, three meals a day, weekly laundry, and housekeeping. At the same time, she carefully compares those costs to returning to her own apartment, where she pays 735 dollars in rent, over 100 dollars for Wi‑Fi, and 16 dollars an hour for in‑home help, all while still wanting someone to cook for her and walk with her every day. Her assessment of the current facility’s therapy is blunt and honest: the therapist is kind but ineffective, staffing is thin, and she feels they cannot properly help her or even take her walking without neglecting others. She looks ahead to arranging better therapy once she is home, confident she can manage her care more effectively on her own terms if she is careful not to “spend all her money” or get “boiled over.” Near the end, she hints at stories from earlier chapters of her life in Powell, Midway, and Bondurant—places she remembers as good and fun, even when money was tight—before returning to the present and quietly insisting that she does not really need to be in the nursing home anymore, only to be allowed to go home and move into the next phase of life with dignity.