Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe (8 page)

Thank God the shut-down only lasted a week. Any longer and the Administration Office would have been torched.

Now that we were back on track, I decided the time had come to pay a visit to the Todds and Rogers. My
real
purpose was to check out the Assisted Living facility. Something screwy was going on, although I didn’t have a clue as to what it was.

I phoned Chet to find out when was the best time to visit.

He said, “We’ve got a lot of activities going on. I’ll have to get back to you.”

I didn’t know what kind of activities he was talking about. Every time I’d been there, the only activity I saw the residents engaged in was breathing. And I wasn’t even sure they were all breathing. Often enough I had been on the wrong side of “get back to you.” Translation: You should live so long.

“Chet,” I said quietly. “Give me a day and time.
Now
.”

“Okay, okay. Tomorrow at three.”

“I knew you’d find a way.”

The following day at three I buzzed the intercom and waved at the surveillance camera. A few moments later, the door was opened by Chet.

He ushered me in and we rode the elevator up to the Assisted Living floor. As always, the inactivity was deafening.

While we walked down the empty corridor to the Todd’s apartment, I said, “You told me there was an activities room at the end of the other corridor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’d like to take a peek at it.”

“Why?”

What came to my mind was: To make sure you’re not giving me more of your bullshit. Instead I said, “Just curious.”

“No problem.”

When someone tells me there’s no problem, I know there’s a problem.

We turned the corner and headed down a corridor as long as the one we’d come from. We stopped at the last door. Chet turned the knob and pushed. There was no give. The door was locked.

“Uh-oh,” said Chet.

“Uh-
huh,
” said I.

“I’ll get the key. It’s in the Administrator’s Office. Wait here.”

While I waited, I glanced around. In front of me was the end of the corridor. It appeared to be a solid wall covered by wallpaper with a zigzag pattern., On close inspection, I saw a fine crack that went from the floor to about the height of a door, and another fine crack at right angles to the first, and a third crack that joined the second at a right angle and ran to the floor. In other words, a hidden door. No knob, but unmistakably a door. I pushed gently against it and felt a slight give, the cracks widened, but it would not open.

I knew there must be a keyhole somewhere in the pattern, but before I could look for it, I heard Chet’s footsteps. I quickly turned to see him striding toward me holding up a key.

“Got it,” he announced.

He unlocked the door to the activities room and swept a hand around. “Here it is.”

Rows of empty chairs took up most of the room. The chairs were separated by a space wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair or walker. At the front of the room was a speaker’s stand with an attached microphone.

I was less interested in the room, which was obviously set up for speakers, than I was in the hidden door. Chet had told me earlier that there was only one way in or out. So much for
that
fairy tale.

 
Chet said, “A movie screen drops down.”

“So the room can be used for speakers or a movie,” I said. A brilliant observation.

“We have movies almost every night.”

“Well, thanks for showing me the activities room. Now, I’d like to see how the Todds are doing.”

“Sure.”

Frank and Mary Todd were eating at a small end table. We spent a few minutes making small talk. “Sorry to disturb you while you were eating,” I said, “I’ll be going, but I‘ll be back in a few days and we can really chat.”

Chet had been standing alongside me, and after we left the Todds I told him I’d like to spend a few minutes with Larry and Christine Rogers.

Their apartment was in the other wing, at right angles to the Todd’s. Chet knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he cracked open the door and peeked in. “They’re napping,” he said. “Come back another time.” Easy for him to say.

Back in my apartment, I tried to picture where the hidden door in Assisted Living led. It was at the end of a corridor in the Assisted Living facility, in an otherwise solid wall. I concluded that it led to somewhere outside the building.

I walked around the outside of the
Care
Center
and Assisted Living building trying to see where it might be. Two sides faced streets. Since there was no outside staircase or fire escape, I eliminated them. A third side faced the Independent Living building, but here again there was no sign of a staircase. The fourth side of the building abutted a three-story enclosed garage. This had to be it.

I went into the garage entrance. The lower floor was used by trucks for delivery of food and other supplies. At the end of the garage, corresponding to the side abutting the
Care
Center
, was a staircase; on the second floor landing,
a steel door
. Assisted Living was on the second floor of the
Care
Center
building. Ah-hah! I clanked up the stairs and cautiously tried to open the door. Locked. No surprise. But I was quite sure this was the outside of the hidden door in the Assisted Living corridor. All I had to do was open it and I’d be in Assisted Living. No problem, right. Translation: There’s a problem.

Back in my apartment, I tried to read but couldn’t keep my mind focused.

Harriet was taking a walk leaving me alone to try and unscramble thoughts about that damn Assisted Living floor.

If I was smart, I would just walk away, forget about the you- know- what. Even if by some sleight of hand I could pass through that door, that hidden door, what did I expect to find? Rooms full of old farts like myself except they couldn’t put on their own shoes. All I was operating on was a hunch that things there were not as they should be. Except for Chet, who I didn’t trust, the people in charge of the floor were not friendly towards me. That was no basis for conducting an investigation by an eighty-something guy whose only credentials as a detective was finding my wife’s glasses.

The truth was, except for the Assisted Living personnel, I liked Restful Bowers. I liked the food, I liked the other residents I’d met, I liked my apartment. The service was that of a five-star hotel. Give it a rest, Henry. Fugetaboutit.

But on the other hand…

Just then the phone rang. The concierge was on the line.

“Mr. Callins, your wife just fell. She’s down here…”

I didn’t wait for the rest. I slammed down the phone and stood in front of the elevator door, tapping my foot until the door opened. I ran in almost knocking down a woman with a walker. At the concierge desk, I yelled, “Where is she?”

The concierge pointed to the door leading to the outside. The Bowers nurse was bent over a form lying on the sidewalk in front of the entry door. Harriet. Stretched out, her forehead scraped and bleeding.

I said, “What happened?”

The nurse had been dabbing Harriet’s forehead with gauze. She said, “Mrs. Callins tripped over a curb. I’ve called 911.”

Harriet turned her head toward me. “Oh, Henry. I‘m such a klutz.”

She tried to sit up, but the nurse held her down. “She’s complaining of pain in her right hip.”

“Is it broken?”

“We’ll have to wait until they x-ray her in the ER.”
 

A red ambulance, its overhead light rack flashing, pulled into the driveway and screeched to a stop in front of us.

An Emergency Medical Technician jumped out of the cab, and with the driver, dragged a backboard out of the ambulance. While one EMT took Harriet’s blood pressure, the other, holding a clipboard, asked the nurse what happened.

The first EMT was feeling Harriet’s arms and chest asking if it hurt. She shook her head. “It’s only my right hip.”

The EMT looked at her right leg and said, “Hmm.”

At the “Hmm,” my hand to flew to my mouth. “Is it, you know, broken?”

Without looking up he said, “We’ll get her to the ER for x-rays.”

They placed the backboard on the ground alongside her, and while one tech gently pulled on her right leg, they moved her over on to it. Although they were gentle, Harriet screamed. They ran duct tape around her chest and head, securing her to the backboard, then lifted her to a rack inside the ambulance.

 
I grabbed the elbow of one of the EMTs. “Where are you taking her?”

“To
St. Joseph
’s ER.”

St. Joseph
’s hospital was only about a mile away. I debated whether or not to hop into the ambulance with Harriet, but decided it was better to have my own car so I could drive home when the time came. I had the valet bring it up and followed the ambulance.

By the time I had parked, Harriet had been brought into an examination room. The waiting room, separated by a door from the examination rooms, was jammed with patients and their families and friends. When the door to the examination and treatment area opened, I caught a glimpse of nurses and doctors, scurrying around. A receptionist at a desk blocked me from going in.

“They’re awfully busy in there,” she said. “You’ll just be in the way. I’ll call you when the doctor has seen her.”

I could see her point, and paced the waiting area until I heard her call my name.

Harriet was in an examination room on a gurney. She grabbed my jacket. “Am I glad to see you.” she said.

A doctor wearing a white coat with his name, A. Nelson, M.D., embroidered on a pocket, stood holding a clipboard. He appeared to be in his late forties, swarthy, slender and had the broad shoulders of an athlete.

I introduced myself and shook his hand. “What can you tell me, Doctor?”

“I’ve examined her. She has some bruises, but the main problem is her right hip. She’s going for an x-ray now. You can go with her. After the x-ray we’ll talk, okay?”

“Does it look as though anything is broken?” My anxiety was still in the red zone.

“She may have a fractured hip, but let’s wait for the x-ray.”

I followed an orderly pushing the gurney to the X-Ray Department and did some more waiting. And worrying.

Twenty minutes later, Dr. Nelson emerged from the room where he’d been looking at Harriet’s x-ray. He appeared somber. My heart sank.

“She has a fractured hip, Mr. Callins. Do you have an orthopaedic surgeon?”

I’d had arthroscopic surgery for a torn cartilage in my knee, but that was twenty years ago and I couldn’t even remember the name of the surgeon. I shook my head. “Who’s the best orthopaedic surgeon on the staff here?”

He smiled. “We have sixteen orthopods on staff and they’re all good.
But Dr.
Baldwin
is head of the department and his specialty is hips.”

“If this was your wife or mother, who would you have?”

“Dr. Baldwin.” No hesitation.

“Call him in.”

Nelson went to a phone. When he returned, he said, “You’re in luck. Dr. Baldwin just came out of surgery. He’ll be here shortly.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Baldwin, in a white coat over a green scrub suit, wearing a green surgical cap, arrived. He was in his fifties, over six feet tall, square jaw, and smiling eyes. We made our introductions and I waited outside the examination room where Harriet lay, while he went in. When he came out he said, “I’m going to look at her x-rays.”

“How does it look?’

He shrugged. “No question she has a fractured hip. How’s her health generally?”

“She’s never had any serious health problems. Maybe a little challenged in the short-term memory department over the past two years.”

“Well, we’ll have someone check her heart and lungs, run some lab tests. After I see her x-rays I’ll discuss her treatment.”

More waiting and stewing until Dr. Baldwin returned with the results. We sat.

“Well, the x-ray confirmed that Mrs. Callins has a fractured hip. The break is about an inch below the knob at the top of the femur.”

“Let’s talk about treatment.”

“I’m coming to that. The fracture is displaced. In other words the ends of the broken bone are separated. She’s going to need surgery. We have two or three options. One, we can try to get the bone ends together in their proper position and then hold the fracture in place with several pins, really thin metal rods. Second, we can remove the knob portion of bone and replace it with a metal prosthesis. Third, we can—.”

I was reminded of the guy you ask him what time it is and he tells you how to make a watch. I put up a hand. “Hold it, Doctor. I’m already in information overload.”

I gave him the “if-this-was-your-mother” routine.

He smiled. “Actually, in her late seventies my mother had almost exactly what your wi—, it’s Harriet, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

He went on. “I chose to go with the removal of the head of the femur and replace it with prosthesis.”

“How did it work out?”

“She was up walking with a walker in less than a week, then graduated to a cane, and in six months went back to playing golf.”

“Sounds good to me. Let’s go for it.”

He said he couldn’t guarantee that Harriet would respond as well, and warned me that there could be complications. Then started with a litany of things that could go wrong. Sounded like lawyer talk, but I was impressed with the guy. We went to tell Harriet.