Part of aging involves at least one trip to the Emergency Room. Three nights ago, my 90-year-old father was hanging out with a friend, who was working out in the exercise room in our condo complex. Dad decided to take a seat on the exercise ball, aiming to keep his balance by putting his feet on the floor. No sooner did he sit down, the ball rolled to the side and dumped him onto the concrete floor. All was well, or so Dad thought.
When he got ready for bed that night, he discovered a gash, about 2.5 inches in diameter, on his elbow, bleeding profusely. He bandaged it up without telling me what had happened.
The next day, he told me all about his debacle and showed me the bandage. It looked quite dramatic, but then again, Dad is on Coumadin and is, therefore, easily bruised.
Yesterday afternoon, he wanted to change the bandage. He decided to show me his wound because it looked horrible. One look at it, and I decided we needed to go to the Emergency Room.
The doctor cut off some dead skin and glued the salvageable pieces back together, like putting together a puzzle. And then, a nurse bandaged it up. We were discharged with a list of information and instructions.
This morning when Dad got up, his arm below the elbow and his hand were swollen. So, we went to the E.R. again. He was put in a cheerful room; the mural painted on the wall was so delightful, it made us relax and smile:
A lab assistant took his INR, and the doctor prescribed an ultrasound to make sure there were no blood clots. It turned out Dad was fine. The doctor thought the swelling might have been caused from the ace bandage put on slightly too tightly the day before by the nurse.
Meanwhile a 20-something-yr-old guy walked into the E.R. with a bloody gouge on his head. Apparently, he had dropped the barbell working out at the gym.
Dad said he didn’t feel so stupid after all, since he had only fallen off of an exercise ball.
Yours in aging with class,