Ella rolled her head. I grabbed a pillow off the sofa to prop her up with, but Bob waved me off. “No, Beck! Haven’t you watched any TV at all? You can’t move her neck or anything, ’cause it might be broken!”
I stood, pillow in hand, feeling totally superfluous. Theo had gone to the kitchen to get a cold cloth to put on Ella’s brow. I guess he had watched TV. So I just set the pillow on the stairs, righted the Windsor chair, and wrung my hands until the sirens were audible in the distance. Then I ran outside and made a complete fool of myself.
“HERE! HERE! OVER HERE!” Waving my hands wildly and jumping up and down. Of course, all this was totally unnecessary, as all paramedics have GPS. But at least I felt as if I were vital, right at that moment. Hallie joined me in the jumping. We screamed as they drove up.
Two burly paramedics piled out of the ambulance and went around the back to haul out a portable gurney. As they rushed it into the house, they smiled at me grimly. I tried to smile back, failed, and followed them in.
Ella gasped as they put braces around her and lifted her onto the gurney. One of the medics, I think I heard the other one call him Tom, took her blood pressure and pulse. I’m not sure, but in the rush I think I heard him say her pressure was low. As they hustled her into the ambulance, Theo pulled Bob and me across the street and into his car. I got in first and put Bob on my lap. Gail, Hallie, and her mom stayed behind to clean up all the cake mess. They waved until we were out of sight. Bless them.
We headed to the ER. Theo didn’t run any red lights, but he certainly drove above the speed limit. Bob strained to keep her eyes on the ambulance, but since it could run lights, it got way ahead of us. I wrapped my arms around Bob and held on tight.
“Gran won’t die. Gran won’t die. Gran won’t die.”
It was a litany. I put my face next to hers and whispered, “No, she won’t die. She just fell down. She is conscious. She will be fine. Bob, do NOT lose faith now. Do NOT LOSE faith.”
Bob nodded. “She will come back.”
I let out the air in my lungs that I didn’t even realize I had been holding. Then I gulped in as much fresh air as I could. I felt as if I might drown. “Bob, I guarantee you that she will come back.”
▷◁
Hospitals are grim places. It seems that they all look alike, no matter what city you are in: glossy, speckled linoleum. Tiled walls, usually a minty green. Assorted generic artwork placed at random intervals, always of either waterfalls or pastures with cows and red barns. Supposed to be comforting? Ugh.
The lady at the information desk, Sandi, according to her nametag, looked as if she hated her job. She hardly lifted her eyes from her computer screen as we approached, and merely flicked a glance at me when I asked, “Is Ella Bowers here? We’re her family. Well, her neighbors and her granddaughter.”
Sandi scrolled. “She’s here, but she hasn’t been evaluated yet. Do you have her Medicare and insurance information and ID? “Luckily, I had thought about this, and had brought Ella’s pocketbook with me. I rummaged around, found her wallet, and searched for her cards. Sandi pulled them from my grasp and got Ella registered. I watched her chipped manicure flying over the keyboard. I felt helpless. Sandi never looked up.
As she slid the cards back across the counter towards me, Sandi threw me a lifeless little smile. “I will call you as soon as there is some information.” Then darling Sandi answered the phone. I was dismissed.
It seemed like hours in that waiting room. We sat there, restless, Theo bringing me cups and cups of coffee and taking Bob on walks around the hospital “to look for the gift shop.”
I tried to read some People magazines, but the status of Brad Pitt and the Kardashians held no fascination. The air-conditioning was set on “arctic.” I shivered and managed to shred five napkins and two of the cardboard coffee cups. Finally, after Bob and Theo had put in around five miles in the corridors and purchased a silk rose and a Get Well card in the gift shop, a weary looking doctor in wrinkled green scrubs came out of a swinging door and called, “Bowers family?”
Bob leapt up. “US! IT’S US!”
Dr. Peter Davenport (according to his nametag) held out his arm and shook hands with Theo, and then me. He put his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you Ella’s grandchildren? Is this your daughter?”
“Not exactly. I’m Rebecca Throckmorton, Ella’s neighbor. And this is Theo Blackburn, my friend. This is Roberta (I had no idea why I was being so formal), her great-granddaughter. Ella has no other relatives locally. Her son is stationed in the Middle East.” Probably way too much information.
Dr. Davenport nodded. “Shall we go into this consulting room, so we can have some privacy?”
That sounded ominous.
Dr. Davenport motioned for us to sit down on the uncomfortable looking wood-and-pleather chairs. He remained standing. I hate this; it feels like an uneven distribution of power. So I remained standing. Bob sat, twisting the pink silk rose, and somehow managing to thrash around in the chair while sitting in it. Theo sat, hands clasped, looking calmly expectant.
“Mrs. Bowers has a femoral neck fracture.” We gasped simultaneously, almost like some sort of horrified choir.
He waved his hands. “No, no. She has not broken her neck. In her fall, Ella’s thighbone—called the femoral neck bone—near the top, close to the hip joint, fractured. This will require surgery to repair. We are going to admit her directly into the orthopedic ward, and she will be evaluated by an orthopedic surgeon.”
At this point, I thought Bob might explode, so I grabbed her out of her seat and sat down in it, pulling her onto my lap. “Bob, calm down. Things will be okay.” Then I looked at Dr. Davenport for confirmation.
He got it. “Roberta—Bob, is it? Bob, your grandmother will be fine. Your grandmother was lucky; her fracture was not as serious as it might have been. The surgery they will do is called hip nailing.” I flinched. “She is fortunate that she will not need a total hip replacement. The surgeon will place a nail in the joint to hold it together until it heals.”
Bob dropped the rose and covered her eyes, as if to blot out the image of a nail in her gran’s hip. I didn’t blame her.
“How long will Ella have to be in the hospital?” Good question, Theo.
“It depends on when the surgery takes place. I would guess that due to Ella’s age, they will schedule it no later than the next forty-eight hours. After the surgery, she will stay in the hospital for one or two days. She will require some rehabilitation, most likely in a rehab facility”—I flinched again; euphemism for nursing home—“and she will be using a walker for one or two weeks. After that, she will be able to come home and go to outpatient rehab. Probably about six weeks. She may need a cane from then on. But Ella seems like a very strong woman. And she has a very good attitude. I gave her some morphine for the pain. We are in the process of establishing whether or not there is a bed for her in orthopedics, and that will take a while. Would you like to go see her? She’s a bit woozy from the pain medication.”
Bob jumped up and headed for the door. “Whoa, Bob! Let’s have Dr. Davenport take us to your gran!” I grabbed Bob by the hand, and we followed Dr. Davenport into the open vastness of the ER. Theo waved us on—“I will just be in the waiting room. Ella doesn’t need a third wheel.” Oh, Theo.
Dr. Davenport walked us through the area that was littered with gurneys, rolling equipment of all kinds, bustling nurses, beeping phone lines, and the distinct odor of sickness. We walked past three curtained-off areas, where I could hear coughing, voices murmuring, and the click of machinery.
He swept back the curtains of the fourth staging area, and we saw a tiny, pale Ella, hooked up to an alarming series of tubes. She looked as if she had shrunk. But her eyes lit up when she saw us, and she smiled, reaching out a shaking hand to Bob. In a rubbery voice: “Hi, Bobby. Don’t be ssscared. I will be jusss fine!”
Bob didn’t look as if she bought that statement. She took her gran’s bony hand in both of her little stubby ones, and put her head down on the bed beside Ella’s shoulder. “Oh, Gran, please don’t die!”
Dr. Davenport got it, again. This guy was a prince in scrubs. “Bob, your grandmother will certainly NOT die. She will be just fine after her surgery. And you can trust doctors. We are trained professionals.” He grinned and mussed Bob’s hair.
Bob heaved a sigh of relief and continued patting Ella’s hand.
Just then, a nurse swished in. “Dr. Davenport, we have a bed.”
▷◁
The surgery was scheduled for eight the next morning. I got there at seven thirty, so that I might be able to meet a doctor or get some sort of information beforehand.
Thank goodness, they were treating me like next of kin. This was out of the ordinary, I knew, but apparently they were able to get in touch with Charles Bowers’ unit, via email. Evidently, Ella carried his information in her purse. He called them back, and they got a cell number where he could be reached directly. The nurses informed me that Charles would make sure that Ella, when she was out of surgery and more lucid, would be signing over an NPA, or notarized power of attorney, to me. They gave me Charles Bowers email address and the cell number. While Ella was in surgery, I was supposed to contact him. Okay. A relief there.
I was surprised to meet the orthopedic surgeon. What I had expected: A tall, distinguished man, late fifties or early sixties, with perhaps graying temples and certainly a firm handshake. Golf tan. No scrubs—a lab coat with broadcloth and a club tie underneath.
What walked in: A young woman, bursting with energy, wearing blindingly enthusiastic yellow scrubs with a sunflower embroidered on the breast pocket. Short, frosted hair. A huge smile. When I attempted to shake her hand, a hug instead. I think I fell in love with her that moment.
“Hi. My name is Dr. Bankson. But you can call me Lauren.” She walked over to where Ella lay, looking a little less pale than she had last night in the ER. Ella looked confused. “Are you a nurse?”
Lauren pulled up a chair so that she could be right next to Ella. “Mrs. Bowers?” She reached out and gently shook Ella’s recumbent hand. “I am Dr. Bankson. I am the surgeon who will be performing your procedure this afternoon. Would you like for me to explain it to you?”
Ella nodded weakly.
Lauren leaned over. “Ella, I will be glad to answer all of your questions. And I will explain exactly what is going to happen. I will step you through it. But first, I need to examine you. Is that okay?”
Another nod, but I could tell that Lauren was working her magic on Ella as well, because Ella smiled, her eyes bright.
“Would you mind giving us just a little private time?”
“Of course.” When I got to the nurses’ station, I saw Hallie’s mother walking toward me, Bob in tow. What a fantastic neighbor. She had taken Bob for the night, so that I could get some rest and figure out a plan for the future.
We went to the orthopedic family waiting room: more pleather. This time it was gray “sofas” with wooden armrests, assorted plastic ferns, a coffee table with assorted out-of-date magazines, and a coffee and soda machine. We sat.
Marva asked me if I had managed to get ahold of Charles Bowers to tell him about his grandmother. “Not yet. But I have his information, and will get in touch today. The hospital talked to him last night. He’s going to instruct Ella to give me some sort of power of attorney to make decisions for her here. I will find out all about that later. I think I may be able to call him.”
Bob nearly jumped out of her skin. “Can I talk to him? He will want to talk to me! Can I?”
“Bob, of course you can.” Bob’s joy was almost palpable.
“When can we go see Gran? Look! I brought the Birthday card I made for her, and the rose, and the Get Well card that Theo and I got. But best of all? SEE?” She held out an official looking envelope with a military stamp. “This is the birthday card Dad sent her! She can see it before her operation! Will Gran be able to talk to Dad, too? That will make her so happy!”
Marva stood to go. “I called the school as you asked. Bob is excused for the rest of the week. Let me know if there is anything else we can do for you. If you decide that having Bob stay with you is too much, she can stay with us. Hallie would love that. Oh, and I meant to tell you: I froze the rest of the birthday cake. There was almost a half of it left. I cut it into slices and wrapped them individually, so you can have it when Ella comes home from the hospital.”
As Marva Davis walked out, Bob whispered, “People are good. Good.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bob and I were taking a much-needed break. The surgery was in process, so there would be no word for at least another hour, I figured. There was a lovely courtyard just outside the main entrance of Framington General, and Bob and I sat amidst hot pink potted geraniums and hanging ferns, drinking lemonade out of yet another vending machine. Bob alternatively sipped her lemonade and gnawed on her thumbnail. I pulled Bob’s hand out of her mouth. “If you keep this up, you will have no fingernails LEFT.”
My phone beeped. I pulled it out of my pocket. The ID said “unknown number.”
“Hello?”
I had seen a few photos of Charles Bowers on Ella’s mantel. A high school graduation picture: nobody looks good wearing a mortarboard. A photo of the newly minted marine: A tall, thin young man with piercing dark eyes and a stiff uniform, hat pulled low over his forehead. Fierce expression. No casual photos—no frolicking in the waves, no posing beside a new car. So really, I had no idea of what Charles Bowers actually looked like. But he sounded like a radio sports announcer. Smooth and masculine.
“Is this Miss Throckmorton? Hi. This is Charles Bowers. How is my gran?”
So the nurses gave him my number. I should have realized that. “Hello, Mr. Bowers. Sgt. Bowers. Charles . . .” (My God, he would think his grandmother was entrusted to an idiot . . .)
“Is she still in surgery?” Such a deep, modulated voice. Meanwhile, beside me on the bench, Bob spilled her lemonade all over her front in her excitement. I filled him in as much as I could with a convulsive eight-year-old crowing and trying to grab the phone out of my hand. Finally, I gave up. “Charles, there is somebody here who is absolutely DYING to talk to you. Let me give her the phone, and I will finish about your gran after.”
Bob clutched the phone and ran over to a nearby bench. For some privacy, I assumed. However, it was hard not to hear her exuberant exclamations: “Dad! Dad! How are you? When are you coming home? Do you know that Gran is going to be fine?” On and on. I felt like a voyeur, so I went inside and sat on a loveseat by the large window overlooking the courtyard, where I could watch Bob’s happiness without impinging on it. She looked as if her heart was pouring directly into the phone as she paced in animated circles. Finally, she seemed to run out of things to say. Looking in my direction, Bob held out the phone. I hustled back outside to finish the conversation with Sgt. Bowers. Bob jumped and clapped her hands the entire time.
I punched the “end call” icon, and turned to the very excited little girl, who by this time had picked some geraniums. “For GRAN!”
“Great. I am not sure that these are here for that reason, but we can take them up to her when she gets out of the recovery room. They will look good with the rose you got her. We had better get back up to the surgery waiting room, in case there’s news.”
We had a snack. Bob chose Doritos, and I opted for a bag of pretzels. Then we took a walk around the entire lobby floor of Framington General. I had no idea that there was a coffee shop, a McDonalds, a cafeteria-style restaurant, and four more banks of vending machines on that floor alone. Bob said that she wanted to go to the cafeteria for dinner, because the menu posted on the door said that they featured peanut butter milkshakes. That was a perfectly sound reason, as far as I was concerned
.
When we returned from our journey around the gustatory hot spots of the main floor, we had just settled down into our seats in the waiting room when Dr. Lauren appeared, her smile saying it all. “The procedure went very well. It was not a large fracture, and I feel confident that your grandmother will do very well.” Kudos to Dr. Lauren, who knew exactly who to discuss the surgery with. Bob’s freckles glowed.
“So. Now she’ll recover for at least one more day here. I am recommending that she spend a week in rehab at Oakmoor Ambulatory Rehabilitation Center. They do a very good job with people your grandmother’s age.” Lauren looked over at me. “Our hope is that she will be able to come home after that, and just go to outpatient rehab. But she won’t be able to drive for six weeks. Is that a problem?”
Yes, this was all a problem. Although I really didn’t need my Starbucks job in the interim, due to royalty income, I selfishly wanted to hold on to my routine. Becoming a surrogate parental figure to an eight-year-old seemed overwhelming. For just a second, I wished that I had never gotten involved with all of this. But then I looked over at Bob, who at that moment was clutching three wilted geraniums, one melon-pink silk rose, and the combination Get Well and birthday cards, covering them liberally with fingermarks and Dorito dust. What was I thinking? I had no choice.
“Dr. Lauren, we will figure out something. I live just across the street. So Bob and I can bounce back and forth until Ella comes home. Ella doesn’t drive, so that isn’t an issue. I have a car and will be the chauffeur. How ambulatory do you think she will be after just one week of rehab?”
What this world needs? More surgeons like Dr. Lauren. “Oh, with hip fractures—well, with any surgeries, really—these days we get them up and moving within hours. By tomorrow, we will have Ella sitting in a chair. The day after, we will have her using a walker to get from her bed to the restroom. Once at the rehab center, as painful as it might be for her, they will have her walking the equivalent of around the first floor of her house before she is released. Is there a bedroom and bath on the first floor?”
Crossing the Street Page 16