Stubborn old coot got his leg stuck under the front seat of the van he was trying to get into. Instead of sending a sedan like they usually do, the cab company sent the mini-van. “Dan” should have waited, at least that’s what his wife of fifty-eight years said as she stood under a shade tree a few feet away and watched us work. They had moved into the place only a week and a half ago, she said. They had to give up their home in Cranston, just couldn’t keep it up. They were worried about their failing health as well. It looked as though they found a nice place to enjoy some quiet years.
Dan had maneuvered himself so he was kneeling on one knee but the other leg just got “more stuck.” The more he moved, the “more stuck” it got. He was howling in pain when we arrived, the assisted living staff, the cabbie, Dan’s wife, some neighborhood kids all were helpless, waiting for somebody who knew what to do.
“Call 911!” I thought as I looked at the hopelessly stuck leg.
“You ARE 911!”
Better think of something. I tried to move the seat forward, Dan’s howling intensified. Plan B. I had Veakro lift from one side while I lifted him from the other, trying to get him back to a forward position. No go, I thought I had ripped his leg off from the noise he made. From my vantage point there was no bleeding, no deformity and no way we were going to get him out of there without making a huge production out of this, hydraulic equipment, Special Hazards, the whole nine yards.
“Veakro, on three,” I said. Veakro understood. He grabbed one arm and leg, I grabbed the other.
“One, two, THREE!”
We picked, turned and weaseled him out from under the seat in about three seconds. He stopped shouting once his leg was free. We helped him stand up, put pressure on the leg and take a few steps. I wanted to take him to the ER for an evaluation, he said he had called for a cab to get to his doctor’s appointment. He was proud of his Independence. He signed a refusal form and we said goodbye…
Midnight. A call came in to the same address for a man bleeding from the head in an assisted living facility, the same one where we helped Dan earlier in the day. Sure enough, we opened one of the apartment doors and there was Dan, a six inch laceration to the top of his head, lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor, his wife standing next to him. He was nearly unconscious but looked at me all the way to the hospital. He suffered a stroke then fell to the floor, smashing his head.
A week and a half. From homeowners, to assisted living, now, in all likelihood, a nursing home.
Life moves fast as you get older.
