Today is “Go To The Doctor” Day for a routine follow-up. While getting ready to go, Don grabs a magazine and his slippers and carries them like a load of school books. Then he heads for the door.
I point to his armload of stuff.
Kristy: What are these for?
Don: The magazine is for the long car ride, and I’m taking the slippers to Grandma’s house.
Kristy: You don’t need the magazine as it’s only a 20-minute drive. It’s been sitting on the coffee table for months. Why do you need to read it now?
Don: Aren’t we headed to Portland?
Kristy: Not Portland. We are going to a more local doctor.
I let the slippers and grandma’s house slide as there’s no time to explain the grandparents have been gone a long time. I never met his grandparents, so don’t know their names. Don tells me they shared their Swedish ancestry, customs, and cooking with him and he enjoyed cooking the most.
We arrive and check-in with the doctor’s office. Don shuffles toward a corner in the waiting room, where there are some empty chairs. He narrowly averted making a full-body-and-cane connection with a female sitting in a wheelchair. The woman in the wheelchair is in obvious pain, making various loud noises between moans and sighs of exasperation. Don, in all his 70+ years of wisdom, belts out for everyone to hear, “I’d really rather be skiing”. The woman stopped moaning and her male companion starting laughing.
Not sure if the male companion is her neighbor, husband, friend, or brother. The guy, dressed like a Hell’s Angel biker that just blew in from Sturgis, catches my attention. Black and white bandana tight on his head, muscles bulging the width of a waiting room loveseat, pretty sure something on him was leather, and she wasn’t wearing lace. Her leg, broken in 2 places, protrudes forward and was resting on pillows. Upon further examination, I see that the black leather boots on the guy are unequal. One looks like a huge lift has been added. I’m guessing motorcycle accident or a secret compartment for weapons.
Afraid to make eye contact with Mr. T, I desperately wished someone, anyone, would change the subject. Before that happens, we are brought up to date, by the male companion, that the woman skied off the front porch and landed next to the car. He drove her 2 hours to OHSU. This is when Don felt it appropriate to interrupt and advise he has heartburn real bad. He thinks it must be from the soup he ate for lunch. Conversation drifts back to the broken leg and the grueling procedures to install plates, screws and not sure what all.
Then the nurse comes to get Don. She and a trainee stop him at the scale to get him weighed. He asked them, “Does this thing speak English”? They giggle, not knowing if they’ve got a nutball on their hands or a smart ass with jokes. Don’t know why a weight machine speaking English was so important to Don. He often butchers the entire English language in casual small talk with strangers. Medical staff quickly grasped the exact status of this patient, who was their last patient of the day. When we are finished, we find the staff was holding the door open for our exit. Parking lot was empty. Good. That means no biker buddies waiting for our departure.
Note to Self: Who, in this waiting room group of 4, is going skiing? #1 has a broken leg. #2 has a lift in his shoe. #3 old man hobbled in with a cane at a speed of 3 feet per hour. #4 can’t go anywhere without #3.
Comments regarding this journal entry can be submitted by clicking and using the Contact Blogger form.