Feb. 3 used to be just a day in the shortest month of the year. This year it marked the opening day of the Beijing Winter Olympics. For me it will be remembered as the day I broke my hip.
Jim had been outside for a couple days snow blowing our driveway and the drives of a few neighbors. I’d been stuck inside. At my suggestion we took Java, our chocolate lab, out for a stroll around 3 o’clock while it was still snowing and blowing. There wasn’t another soul on our street, so we didn’t put Java on her leash. She cavorted and romped and plowed through the snow.
Jim had slipped a couple of times and I did once, so it made sense to return home before we reached the end of the street. About three houses from ours, down I went, square on my right hip. Jim was immediately at my side. Java was too — she must have thought I was getting down on her level to play. Jim asked me if I could move. “Not my right leg. Something’s broken.” He claimed he heard a crack but was hoping it was the ice.
He left me to get blankets from the neighbors while calling 9-1-1 on the way to their house. Before I knew it, I was covered with one neighbor’s coat and blankets provided by two others.
Fire rescue arrived first. I was really hoping and praying as the vehicle approached it would not have a difficult time stopping. It didn’t. Nate and his partner spoke such calming words between questions. Just a couple minutes later the EMS arrived.
Questions continued, vitals were taken, more calming words spoken. Nitrous oxide was administered — you know, laughing gas. Knowing I was in good hands, Jim walked Java home and quickly returned.
Transferring me from the icy street to the gurney, the emergency folks were treated to some deep guttural moans and groans. Tears fell down my cheeks. There were more soothing words. Inside the ambulance Savannah and Josh tended to my needs which included cutting the right pant leg to look for visible injuries. (Not my favorite pair of jeans, thank God.) Vitals recorded again, IV fluids started, and reminders issued to breathe in that nitrous oxide.
Communication with Kosciusko Community Hospital about a 65-year-old female being transported occurred and we were on our way to KCH. I wouldn’t have to be diverted to Fort Wayne.
Skip forward to Friday and surgery to put a rod in my femur, from the top where the break occurred to about midway to my knee. (I named my device Rod-knee.) The procedure is called a cephalomedullary nailing. Pleasant sounding, huh? When I was alert enough to ask later about the break, I expressed concern that having had breast cancer and gone through chemo and radiation so recently my bones may have softened. The young orthopedic surgeon calmed my fears by explaining that often in patients my age having gone through chemo and radiation, he could easily push the rod and nail in by hand. “I had to use my hammer on both,” he beamed. (I appreciated the information, but cringed a bit at the delivery.)
I stayed at KCH until Tuesday, Feb. 8. While there I was on the receiving end of outstanding care by male and female aides, CNAs, nurses of all sizes and shapes, ages and colors, education background and degrees, and personalities. As different as they were, they all had something in common. They were givers. They were helpers. I am so grateful for people like Malvie, Andrea, Elena, Kathy, Barb, Rebecca, Linda, Aaron, Dan, Peggy, and others.
On that Tuesday a driver from Mason Health and Rehab picked me up at KCH and drove me down the road to the facility where I would live for the next several days. At Mason I encountered another team of very caring people: Lon, Shirley, Katrina, Jenna, Christina, Eric, Gracie, Dominique, Todd, Shelly, and so many others. And an awesome team of physical and occupational therapists — Tyler, Rusty, Shane, Katie, and Jay — got me back on my feet.
At both places the staffs made me feel my needs were most important until I returned home Feb. 19. Some monitored my vitals and managed my pain and blood glucose levels, others made me comfortable (well, as comfortable as possible with a broken hip), and one changed my bandage until I no longer needed one. Some just stopped by for conversation that had nothing to do with a broken hip, medication, wound care, or therapy.
At Mason, I witnessed something special — the care of my 70-year-old roommate. She is confined to her bed and a special wheelchair between which she is moved with the aid of a Hoyer Lift. We had one of those mechanical beasts to use with my mom in her final months. We named it Hercules. With the help of Hercules, we lifted Mom out of bed and into her wheelchair to move her to the kitchen table in my sister’s home for meals and games of 5 Crowns and Dominoes.
The big difference between my mom and my roommate is their caregivers. Mom was surrounded by daughters and occasionally granddaughters to take care of her needs (in addition to visiting nurses and Hospice staffers). My roommate, whose family lives in Michigan and visits rarely, relies on the loving care of people who were strangers when she first arrived four years ago. Her voice is weak, but she always expresses gratitude for the care she receives whether she’s being bathed or fed or dressed. And her caregivers remind her they love her and her striking blue eyes. They ask her questions about her children, her life in Michigan, and her career as a nurse.
Here’s the Thing: If you haven’t yet found yourself in need of an ambulance or stuck in a hospital, rehab facility, or nursing home for an extended stay, it’s pretty likely you will sometime during your lifetime. Be a good patient, a pleasant resident. All are situations where you can practice gratitude and be thankful that there are people who choose to serve our various needs while in their care.
———
Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired teachers — Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Marianne Darr-Norman, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
