Paging Mr. Trotsky

Long, long ago and probably not far away, some benevolent sprite decreed that no matter what happens to my family, it will be tinged with the farcical and we’ll all get to keep our senses of humour.

The doctor Dad calls Brunhilda, a paunchy Beach Boy type, has been pushing for the surgery to repair the leg, pointing out that otherwise Dad will be bedridden for at least two months and thus at risk for bedsores and pneumonia. Not to mention the general weakening of all his muscles, his heart and his lungs.

As a result, when I arrived at the hospital on Monday, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Dad has decided to go ahead with the operation. The staff social worker, however, somehow got the impression that “the family” felt Dad had been railroaded into his decision. She set up a meeting for Tuesday morning at 9:30 and invited the doctor and a couple of nurses as well as us. We would put “everything on the table” and “air our opinions.”

Both Mom and Tickles, who’d just arrived from Vancouver, looked a bit puzzled since this isn’t the case, but we politely agreed to attend. Dad muttered something about Brunhilda being a steamroller like Stalin and his gang but didn’t seem averse to the idea either.

Accordingly, I showed up promptly at 9:30 on Tuesday morning to find Dad reclining in solitary splendour amidst the littered remains of his breakfast.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“The meeting’s been cancelled,” said Dad. “They’re coming up this afternoon, I think.”
“Oh!”

“Didn’t Mom tell you?”

“No, but that’s okay. It’s snowing” (yes, you hear a great gnashing of teeth) “so this is a better time for me to visit than later this afternoon.”

Suddenly we heard a commotion in the hallway.

Nurse: Mr. Jones, where are you going?”

Mr. Jones: To the Legion.

Nurse: No you’re not.

Mr. Jones: Says who?

Nurse: Says me.

Mr. Jones: And who are you?

Nurse: I’m the nurse and I make the rules around here.

Mr. Jones: Says who?

You get the idea. Mr. Jones was eventually trundled back to his room and the same nurse, labelled Bree, trotted up to the foot of Dad’s bed.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Annie,” she said. “Brunhilda’s been held up. We should be able to start the meeting by ten o’clock, though.”

A few moments of confusion ensued. I indicated to Bree that the family would respect and support whatever decision Dad made. We’re glad he’s decided to have the leg repaired, but the decision was his and his alone.

“You’ve made a wise choice, I think,” Bree said. “You’re very bright. You know what’s going on and you have a great sense of humour...”

“You’re too kind,” Dad interjected.

“Trust me, those are very big things around here,” she continued. “And you wouldn’t want to risk losing them through immobility.”

Dad indicated that if the doctor and other hospital staff were prepared to meet, then we should go ahead. I went to the Nursing Station to call Mom and met Merry One, the social worker, en route. She grinned and grinned and talked about comfort levels. After getting a busy signal five times, I finally reached Mom who said, “Oh, good heavens! What next?” and promised to race out the door as quickly as she could.

I headed back to Dad’s room. Brunhilda strode in a few minutes later.

“First off,” he said, “I want you to know that I received a phone call last night at 9:30, that’s P space M, at my home, telling me this meeting was cancelled. Otherwise I would have been here at the appointed time. I am never late.”

Mom arrived in a flurry of scarves, smelling of snow. Brunhilda repeated the story of last night’s phone call.

“Where’s Tickles?” asked Dad.

“He just got up,” replied Mom. “And he wants to have a shower.”

“Ah,” Dad managed a smile. “When a Broadway Baby says good night, you know it’s almost morning.”

Brunhilda frowned. “The procedure is very simple and doesn’t take long to perform. We simply insert two pins and by the next day you’ll be sitting up. The day after that you’ll start getting around with a walker.”

A man in Blue Pyjamas skipped into the room and made a beeline for the bed across from Dad’s, where a comatose patient lay snoring.

“Someone’s sleeping in my bed!” he shouted.

“That’s not your bed, Mr. Smith.” Nurse Bree appeared in the doorway, panting.

“Yes, it is!” and Blue Pyjamas proceeded to lie down right on top of the hapless person already occupying the bed. Nurse Bree called Security and a beefy guard came and carried Mr. Smith away.

Stalin the Steamroller continued as if absolutely nothing had happened. “Given the degree of mobility you still had before you fell, you’ve made the right choice. If you were my father or – er husband” – he looked at Mom rather confusedly – “I’d certainly recommend the surgery. It’s a no-brainer.”

Where oh where on earth is good old Trotsky when you need him?