Hoarder with no left foot


I just got back from hauling Doris out of the Ottawa Hospital.

What a bunch of maroons.

They’ve been trying to kick her and her broken foot out for the past three days, even though she is not able to care for herself or her husband. Turns out, Bob has rallied and is now able to take ParaTranspo to do some shopping, though he hasn’t quite figured out how to order his ride.

That makes me feel slightly better, but I’m still worried that they won’t be able to make it without some  kind of care.

Anyway, the hospital told Doris they were sending her home with a wheel chair and that physio would be at their place next week to help her with negotiating life as a hoarder with no left foot.

So I got to the hospital and we waited around for her wheelchair to arrive.

And waited.

Finally, I went to the nursing station, who called physio who told Doris that she’ll have to wait until next week to get the wheelchair delivered — this poor elderly woman who is not supposed to put any weight on her foot.

So the challenge became this: how do I, her reasonably strong and fit “daughter” — that’s what the nurses were calling me — get my little friend into her apartment building which has no wheelchair access.

“Maybe I can bum my way up the stairs,” Doris suggested.

The physio went white.

“No, Doris, you absolutely cannot put any weight on that foot. I’m not sure what you’re going to do. Sorry about that.”

And with that, I ran around the hospital looking for a porter because the nurse was too damned lazy to find one — they were all drinking coffee in the lobby — and got Doris to her building. I had crutches she cannot use and a walker that can’t get her up the stairs and my two little arms.

Fortunately, I found a bunch of good ole boys who were moving in.

One of them carried Doris up the stairs while I ran upstairs for Bob’s fancy walker, the one with the seat which allowed me to push her into the elevator.

What nice young men.

It’s always nice to know you can count on the kindness of strangers.

You certainly can’t count on the competence of weekend hospital staff.

So Doris will wait until next week to get mobile. I’m thinking she’s going to have to crawl to the bathroom, where she fell in the first place.

The scene of the crime.

Let’s hope Doris doesn’t fall again.

This time I’m telling her to call 9-1-1.

At least the paramedics know what they’re doing.

Even the ones who work weekends.

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