Is it Monday yet?

The best word to describe this weekend is "grr..." [1]. Someone placed a cosmic kick me sign on my ass (metaphorically speaking) and it worked like a charm. And it was supposed to be such a happy weekend…

You see, Ken was supposed to be out of the hospital. Last week, while getting out of his truck, the wind blew the door, which hit him, knocking him to the ground and breaking his hip. When he called to tell me about the accident, he said he’d be out by Monday. So John and I planned on going down to give him his ration of crap for making his life more difficult than it needed to be.

Except that the doctors decided to put screws into his hip. So now Ken is tuck in the hospital until the end of this month. And the first that John and I knew of this change in plans was when John got to Ken’s house, only to find the door locked and nobody home.

Meanwhile, I was driving up from Houston. Ignoring the optometrist, who tried to talk me into having my eyes dilated, and the Houston traffic, which was as awful as usual, and the McDonald’s, which managed to not only give me the wrong order but sabotaged the one I did get so that it spewed mayonnaise on me with the first bite, there was the added joy of a series of frantic phone calls from my office when the data that was delivered late and incomplete turned out to have the wrong loading sheet as well and  two and a half traffic tickets. I freely admit that I deserved the first ticket; 85 mph in a 70 mph zone is unlawful - and worth about $200 to the local sheriff [2]. But then I slowed down to 70 - only to get a citation because apparently the speed limit goes down to 65 at night in that part of Texas. And, while giving me the citation, the sheriff noticed that I had Florida tags but a Texas inspection sticker. So I got another ticker for not completing the address change inside of 30 days [3].

Back at Ken’s house, John called Ken and got the name of his hospital. He relayed the information to me, and I met them there. Much laughing was had by all, especially when I gave Ken a bottle of Armagnac that he had lusted over at my place. Ken called his mom at his house and got her to promise to leave the door unlocked for us. So, after playing merry hob with the visiting hours [4], at midnight John and I headed back to Ken’s house. Only to find the door locked and everyone sound asleep once we got there…

So we piled back into the car and went to the motel nearest to the hospital, where for a mere $55, we got a clerk who could neither speak English nor take the phone from his ear long enough to talk to us nor give us two rooms [5]. Fortunately, the room he did give us was large enough, empty enough, and shabby enough to hold a rodeo in, and included two beds [6]. So, after ignoring the solicitations [7] of our neighbors, John and I went to sleep for six hours.

We woke up promptly at 7 AM so that we could bring Ken his favorite – omelets with everything and Starbucks coffee. Only the first three places the navigation system suggested had burned down or been closed. We did finally find a Denny’s where they were happy to take our order and even filled it reasonably quickly, but we were still late. As we got into Ken’s room, the assistant was trying to talk Ken into going into breakfast.

We ate breakfast and told the nurse that we were kidnapping Ken that afternoon. She rounded up the doctor who gave her permission, provided we went through training [8]. So we waited for Ken’s physical therapist to show up. And waited. And waited. (And called the office to keep sorting out the data loading problem.) When she finally did show up, she tried to excuse herself with “Well, the head of the department wanted to talk to all of us” – and wasn’t pleased when I pointed out that (A) that was no excuse for being rude to a patient by being late, and (b) the patients were the reason she was there, and (c) if she was unwilling to tell the department head that she had an appointment, I would do it for her [9]. She did “train” us (“Don’t let him fall down”), and we went to Ken’s house, which is where he wanted to go. The head nurse told us we could only stay out until 6 PM, due to hospital regulations on what constituted an “in patient”. While at Ken’s house we took the precaution of getting a spare key. We brought him back on time and in one piece, and then stayed around until about 10 PM making Ken and the nurse laugh.

Sunday morning was McDonald’s for breakfast and four straight hours of PT for Ken. While Ken was in PT, the local Catholic volunteer came by, and I took the opportunity to bend her ear about the notable lack of visits or thanotic counseling by the parish priest [a]. She looked shocked and then appalled, and promised to bring the Monsignor by (which she did, later). I also called the office to continue sorting out the problem with the data.

After PT, Ken was free to go back home for an hour. On the way to his house, we stopped for ice cream at Braum’s (Ken’s decision). At his house, I took the doors off of his closet and his bathroom so that he could use his wheelchair to get around [10]. We then took him back to the hospital and I headed back home. On the way back, my sister called to tell me that the windstorm in Virginia had pushed a tree through the roof of the house I had bought for my mother. Nobody was hurt, but the roof is damaged and awaiting an estimate from Allstate. And got a message from my boss telling me that he wanted to see the IT guy, me, and the data suppliers in his office the first thing Monday morning [11].

But at least we got Ken out of that dreary hospital for a day – and switched the hand lotion for cheese whiz (but that’s another story).

John

[1] Followed closely by "Arrgh!"
[2] As my dad says "If you can't pay the fine, don't do the time"
[3] I tried, I tried. But each state does things differently.
[4]  Which his nurse cheerfully ignored as we were the most fun she had had all day. Ken has great nurses.
[5] Apparently, two people wanting a room each was a rarity at this motel.
[6] Hey, it’s a guy thing. Besides which, John has cold feet.
[7] For what, we were never sure. The guy asked for a light, and then if our room had a phone. John said “goodnight” politely enough and closed the door.
[8] Ignoring the fact that I had three years of practical experience in moving people with brain cancer, we had already been through the training once before. But that was at a different part of Baylor and so didn’t count.
[9] This last said when she tried to say that she couldn’t interrupt the head of the department [a].
[10] Only fair; on Saturday, John was stuck redoing the shower head while I did laundry for Ken.
[11] Which he did. He didn’t blame the IT guy (who truly was innocent) or me (who deserved a little of the blame), but really reamed the data supplier (who then got it from me for dropping the ball in such a spectacular fashion [a]).
[a] I can be such a bastard sometimes.