Role reversal

Since my mother has become wheelchair bound and in need of caregivers, against her wishes, she has become like my third child.  I ask her where she is going, what she is doing, and why she is doing things.  I tell her not to do things.  I try to teach her to be respectful to the people that are helping her, and I scold her when she isn't.  I have told her a million times to stop leaning over in her wheelchair to pick things up off the floor.

Me:  "Who cares if you drop some crumbs?  Ask your caregiver to run the vacuum later."
Me:  "Who cares if you drop something?  Ask your neighbor to pick it up when he brings the mail."

Monday night she knocked over a container of pens and pencils.  She leaned over and picked them up, and in putting them back on her table, she knocked over a container of odds and ends.  She leaned over and picked up those, and  in putting them back, she knocked them both over again.  Third time was not the charm.

In picking up those two containers she leaned too far in the chair.  The wheelchair tipped, Connie couldn't get her footing, and down to the ground she went.  She broke her fibula in the left leg, the leg with the foot wound.  She heard it pop.  She managed to work awhile to get the phone to fall off the table into her hands where she dialed her neighbor for help.  He came immediately and helped get her back into the wheelchair.  She calmed him down.  Calmed herself down.  Her caregiver arrived and together they cleaned up wounds and carpets and containers.  Her leg hurt, but she insisted it was just sprained, despite the pain.  She did not bother me with it.

The next morning I arrived to get her ready and to take her to a scheduled doctor's appointment. I heard the story.  I refrained from yelling and reminding her of the millions of times I've told her not to do what she did.  We managed to get down the 15 stairs to the car.  Luckily for us, this doctor had X-ray equipment and he discovered the fractured fibula.  He got us into an orthopedic doctor for later that day.  That guy, an elder gentleman who spent more time cursing Obama then he did discussing broken legs, didn't even touch her.  His people took another X-ray, he came into the room and seated himself on the exam table like we were all buddies in a dorm room, and announced the "good news".

Him:  "The break isn't all that bad.  Could be worse.  It's the fibula, a non weight bearing bone.  We don't do anything for that.  Go home and heal.  We won't need to see you again.  Good Luck."

Huh?  We don't do anything for broken legs?  I could have sworn a lady in the waiting room had a cast on her leg.  Turns out her break was closer to the ankle.  Connie's is closer to the knee and a different bone.  No one worries about the fibula.  This doctor didn't even care that it was on her somewhat good leg, the other leg being the one with the bad hip.  He didn't care that she had to climb 15 stairs.  He did tell her she would probably heal less faster then someone else what with all her COPD issues and poor circulation and poor healing skills (this he said pointing to the charcot foot).

Connie:  "That is not true.  I DO NOT have poor circulation.  Why would you say that?  Everyone says that and it is NOT true.  It is SO annoying."  Looks over at me.  "I'm a good healer above the ankle.  Sir."

Well, at least she might be listening somewhat.  Ho, Ho, Ho.