Free Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe by Barry Friedman Page B

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.

Chapter Twenty
     
     
    At 7 o’clock the following morning, they wheeled Harriet into the operating room.
    The night before, I had called all three of our children and gave each the bad news. Although I told them I’d let them know how things went, I was proud that all three insisted they would be on their way here as soon as they could get flights out. By the time they arrived, Harriet had been operated on and had been returned to her room from the recovery room.
    Dr. Baldwin said everything had gone well. When the first words out of Harriet’s mouth on waking up from anesthesia were a slurred, “Are you getting enough to eat?” I knew she was on her way to recovery.
    To me, her progress was remarkable. She was up in a wheelchair the afternoon following surgery, took a few steps with a walker the next day, and was sent from the hospital five days later to the Bowers’ Care Center . The wonders of modern medicine.
    We must have done something right in raising our kids. They couldn’t have been more solicitous or caring. Wendy was either at Harriet’s bedside or shopping to keep our refrigerator stocked for snacks and lunches. Ken and Andy chauffeured me back and forth to and from the hospital while Harriet was there. In addition, they fixed what was broken around the apartment. They wouldn’t let me bend to pick up anything that dropped. I felt like an old king. The “old” part was right on.
    After seeing that Harriet was settled in the Care Center , Wendy and Ken went back home to take care of their work and families.
    Andy stayed on for another day. He was a fix-it guy. His day job was as an executive in a computer company.
    While Harriet was resting, he was back with me in the apartment. I said, “While you’re here, take a look at my computer. It’s become so slow I can read a book until it responds to my commands.”
    He turned it on and shook his head. “The desktop screen is so full of icons I’m surprised you can get anything done. You don’t need all the junk you’ve got in it.”
    Any time I’d seen the internet message “Download Free,” I clicked on it. I’d used the computer primarily to keep my financial data and writing letters. I’d forgotten what most of the icons represented.
    Andy worked on it for about half an hour. His fingers flew over the keys while he was saying, “You don’t need this.” Or “Do you actually play mahjong on this machine?” He uninstalled all the junk I’d accumulated. When he was finished,