Being an 82-year-old in an ER is like being a senior citizen at a rock concert—everyone’s a little banged up, but the stories are gold. The doctor, a young man named Dr. Patel with kind eyes and zero patience for fussing, calmly explained that Betty had a subdural hematoma. “That’s fancy talk for ‘my brain took a little tumble,’” she told the nurse. “I’ve had bigger knocks falling off my grandkid’s scooter.” The nurse didn’t laugh. Nurses have heard it all, including the scooter story.
Life-threatening injuries at 82 are a weird game of bingo. You’ve got your broken bones, your internal bleeding, and your complete refusal to admit anything’s wrong. Betty’s blood pressure was doing a jitterbug, but she was more worried about her grandson missing his school play. “He’s the tree,” she said, clutching a nurse’s hand. “The important tree. Can’t be upstaged by a fall.” That’s the spirit: priorities straight, bones askew.
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They put Betty in a semi-private room with a roommate named Margaret, who had a broken hip from slipping on a grape at the grocery store. For two nights, they had a contest to see who could make the most absurd requests. Betty asked for a chocolate pudding and a rerun of Golden Girls. Margaret asked for a purple bedpan because “beige is depressing.” The nurses exchanged looks that said, “Welcome to Tuesday.”
The IV drip beeped like a tiny, angry robot. Every time Betty moved, a symphony of monitors and alarms went off. “It’s like I’m auditioning for a techno band,” she grumbled. Her son, Tom, brought a photo of Mr. Whiskers and taped it to her bedside table. “So I can plot my revenge,” she said, smiling. The cat, of course, was at home, living his best life, probably planning his next attack on her shoelaces.
Life-threatening doesn’t mean life-ending, thank goodness. The doctors stabilized her brain bleed with a bit of surgery that she described as “a very long, very boring nap.” Now she’s in recovery, but the real battle is between her and the physical therapist, a cheerful man named Dave who makes her do leg lifts she hates. “You’re stubborn,” Dave said. “I’m spirited,” she shot back. “There’s a difference.” There isn’t, really, and that’s the whole point.
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