So I’m at work, it’s getting late when Tom, my grandmother’s husband, pulls up. He tells me Grandma fell down and she was taken to the ER by an ambulance. She bit through her lip and possibly broke her arm were added to the mix just to make me worry more.
Closing time comes ’round and I perform my nightly ritual, hop in the Bonneville and speed off to the hospital. I got to reception, was guided back. Tom gave a warm greeting in the hall. I think I actually uttered the words “fuck you” as I shouldered past him into the room. I walked in and saw my poor Grandma laid out on a backboard, wearing a neck brace, mouth wide open, blood on her clothing, a nasty scab on her lip and tubes and wires everywhere.
For a split-second I thought she was dead. I knew she wasn’t. But that’s where my mind took it.
Now, I’m sitting in the room with her, listening to her snore away in a medicated haze. Tom went home to get some rest for work in the morning. She dislocated her left shoulder and they had to put some stitches in her lip. Other than thatm she’s fine. I’m glad, too. Very glad.
I’ll have to apologize to Tom.
I hate hospitals.