And that's why we call them patients

It was a step he'd made many thousands of times, from the boathouse to the ground. This time, though, with the ground softened by so much rain, he didn't slip so much as he lost his balance. He fell backwards, between the boathouse and the little stone wall at the back of the flowerbed. Naturally, I was most concerned when my father hit his head, but that turned out to be a lesser bruise. He said his arm was uncomfortable. He'd hit that against the stones, too.

We went up to the camp and cut away the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal an arm that looked like it had met up with a dull and determined potato peeler. He agreed that a doctor should see it. He wanted, however, to have coffee first. And we did. So, 20 minutes later, we drove to one of the community hospitals in the area.

(The insurance companies have us pretty well trained. We don't ask ourselves, "What's the nearest hospital?" We ask, "What's the nearest hospital that's a member of my insurance plan?")

The medical staff was pleasant, professional, never giving the impression that they were terribly understaffed. The waiting room was full to overflowing during the time that we were there. There was only one doctor in the ER. The triage nurse examined my father as soon as we arrived and put some bandages on the wounds. It would two hours before we would get inside the ER. Then, treatment was thorough, but slow, another three hours. He received a tetanus shot which lasts for another 5-10 years. It wouldn't surprise me if he got another one then.

So, he's home now with no further treatment other that change the dressings daily and respect the law of gravity. I'll check in with him by phone today and in person tomorrow.

I'm glad that we went, but if we knew that it was going to take five hours, we probably wouldn't have gone.