Yesterday afternoon, my friend Scott and I took in a movie. "Good Company", which was nice - predictable, but very nice. I got home and my kid says "Now, don't freak out, Mom. Everything is okay... The doctor called. Grandma broke her arm and she's in the hospital."

Shit.

Apparently, my 75 year old, partially demented (No. really. She's got dementia now too) was getting on the senior's bus to ride home from her job as a volunteer at the hospital, when she slipped off the step and fell. She cracked up her shoulder and broke her wrist.

They had to do surgery on her this morning to replace the shoulder and set the wrist.

We were pretty freaked out, because she's in such poor health - we were seriously concerned that she wouldn't make it through a surgery.

But she did. She's got a gigantic bandaged side, splint, transfusion of two units of whole blood - five hours of surgery and a morphine drip.

Now it will be even more difficult for her, because she'll have to be in the hospital for a few days, and then transferred to a rehabilitation center. After that, who knows? She won't be able to dress herself or bathe, or hobble around with her cane for who knows how long. She's probably too far into her dementia for the doctors to advise her to go back to her apartment. She can't live with us (mentally ill/weird kid on three antidepressant meds - dog - two cats. She forgets important things like letting wounds on her leg fester and whether she took her medicine or not, or how to clean up spilled soup from the kitchen counter until ants turn up, or where we're going, etc. Nope. That' won't work at all). And she can't live with my brother because those two would seriously kill each other. She'll probably have to move into one of those institutions where demented old folks live. That's just going to be horrible.

I'll think about that tomorrow. Back at Tara...

January 23, 2005

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