Amazing Grace
My husband called recently to say he had fallen off the back end of a semi-trailer he has parked on a cement slab out behind our airplane hangar in Whetstone, Arizona. “I’m pretty sure I dislocated my hip,” he said.
The orthopedic surgeon warned us this could happen after Ron’s recent hip replacement surgery. He said the pain would be excruciating. And it was. I could hear it in Ron’s voice. “I’m calling an ambulance,” I said.
I pulled up at the hanger forty minutes later as two EMTs were loading Ron into the ambulance. He was pale and disoriented. I turned to one of the EMTs. “Please take him to Benson Hospital,” I said.
The Benson Hospital is a small, rural hospital affiliated with the University of Arizona School of Medicine, which is part of the Banner Health Network. Ron and I learned years ago that joining Banner meant Ron and I could focus on our health by accessing a patient portal rather than trying to keep track of appointments, labs, surgeries, procedures, and medical records.
I kissed Ron on the forehead. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
The hospital is thirty minutes from the airstrip. Once we arrived, the attending ED doctor gave Ron drugs to relax him before he tried a hip reduction (relocating the hip). The drugs knocked Ron out so that he didn’t know what was happening, but they didn’t keep him from moaning in agony as the doctor manipulated his leg. After several attempts, the doctor turned to me. “This isn’t working. We need to transport him to Banner up to Tucson.”
I looked up at the clock. It was 7 pm— five hours since he fell.
It was an hour trip to Tucson by ambulance and Ron was admitted into the ED where we met with an orthopedic resident who explained how he planned to perform a hip reduction, the same procedure the doctor in Benson had tried.
The ED was full, and it took hours before a team could be assembled. An ED resident was assigned to administer drugs to help Ron relax and to help with pain. A nurse was appointed to keep track of the drugs being administered. An x-ray technician brought in a portable x-ray machine, so that the procedure could be monitored in real time. The orthopedic resident who made the call to try the reduction and an ED intern arrived at the same time. Since Banner is a teaching hospital, the attending ED doctor came in to oversee the procedure. I checked my phone. It was after midnight.
I stood just outside the glass doors and prayed Ron’s hip would slide back in without much fanfare. A sick, gurgling churned my stomach as he shouted out in agony while the orthopedic resident, ED intern, and ED attending doctor used all their strength to manipulate Ron’s hip, and where I stood witness imagining medieval torture devices and the cries coming from dungeons where unspeakable things were performed. Soon, a rhythm was established: Administer drugs through an IV; pull, push, lift, and turn Ron’s leg; step back and allow for the radiology technician to take an x-ray. Then everyone, including me, stared at the image where a titanium metal ball and socket stared back at us separated by tissue. We shook our heads before the doctors tried again. As an academic, I understand the minds of students. It was important that this go well because in the morning, these interns and residents would have to report to their superiors. There was a lot at stake, and thirty-three minutes into it, I had seen enough. Because of the drugs, Ron would not remember the pain he was in, but I would, so I stepped in to advocate for him. Before I could say something, the attending ED doctor shut it down and turned to me. “We’re going to schedule him for surgery in the morning.”
Defeated and exhausted, everyone left the room quietly.
I sat with Ron until he woke up. I explained that the hip reduction didn’t work and that he would have surgery in the morning. This was a devasting blow. Ron had three shoulder surgeries and a hip replacement over two years. During that time, I had a pacemaker implanted and two cataract surgeries. We both knew all too well what recovery would look like.
The ED attending doctor came in to check on Ron. When he did, I said it was time I went home. “It’s four o’clock in the morning,” the doctor said. “I really don’t think you should be driving. You can stay here.”
I had called my mom on my way to Tucson earlier that night. She was happy to go to our house and feed the animals and let the dogs out. “Just take care of Ron right now.” I couldn’t call her at four in the morning.
I got up and grabbed my purse. “We have dogs at home.” I said. “They need to go outside. I’ll be back before noon.”
I got home safely and was in bed by 5:30 am. I set the alarm for eight, so that I would be at the hospital when Ron came out of surgery. On the way to the hospital, I called my sister Kelli who I had called several times the day before and who heard in my voice that I needed just as much help as Ron.
“I’m in Yuma. I’ll be at your house later this afternoon,” she said. Kelli and her husband, Carl, were wintering in Southern California. Kelli knows my health history and understands that lack of sleep and stress can cause a downward spiral in my health, so she had rented a car and was on her way. It’s an eight-hour drive from where they were staying, and she had already driven halfway. I was grateful and relieved. “Thank you,” I mumbled.
As I was driving back to the hospital, the orthopedic resident who had worked on Ron the night before called. “Good news, Beth. I was able to do the reduction once Ron was fully under. He didn’t need surgery. He can go home today.”
I had been running on reserve since Ron called the day before from the hangar, and my body had held up well until that call. Then, like a tsunami, swelling flooded my system, sending waves of pain through my joints, muscles, eyes, and head. This is the vestige of diseases— the old (malaria and Lyme disease) and the new (long COVID) that reside in my body like interlopers. Gripping the steering wheel, I watched in real time as my hands swelled to twice their size. I adjusted my sunglasses and pulled the hood of my jacket up to keep out peripheral sunlight. By the time I reached the hospital, my lower back had seized. I couldn’t move. A nurse helped Ron into the car. At that moment, I wished Ron had had surgery that morning and needed a day or two in the hospital to recover. I knew I couldn’t take care of him on my own.
Kelli arrived shortly after we got home and immediately gave me an ultimatum. “Either you stay in bed with Ron and let me do everything around here, or I’m going back to California.”
As the oldest of four girls, I feel a responsibility to take care of people, including my sisters. Kelli’s warning was well founded, but her worries that I might try to do too much were quickly put to rest. When the pain and swelling appear, I also experience cognitive issues. Thinking, hearing, and seeing properly are thwarted as I move slowly through a thick, dark syrup. I can’t find my words or navigate simple daily tasks. I can’t move. Ron and I lay in bed side by side with the curtains pulled, staring at the ceiling. Ron in a drugged haze. Me, catatonic.
Kelli went to the store to pick up something for dinner. She threw in a load of laundry, took care of the animals, and most importantly, checked on us often, always asking, “What else can I do?”
Stay forever, I thought.
After a good night’s sleep and a mountain of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, the swelling was down. I was able to move. Kelli met me in the kitchen. “I need to get back. I’m packed and ready to go,” she said.
I grabbed her in a bear hug and begged her to stay. She wiggled to break free and laughed. “Get off of me.”
I got up to use the bathroom during the night. Staring in the mirror, I was sucker punched with the reality of it all. “I couldn’t take care of Ron yesterday,” I said.
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
“But you’re leaving.”
“And you’re better today. You’ll be fine.”
She was right. I could feed and walk the dogs. I could make a meal and clean up the house. But an unspoken question lingered in the air between us, What if this happens again?“Thanks for being here,” I said at the door. And then she was gone.
I experience a kind of amnesia after one of my “bad days”. I forget just how sick and incapacitated I become. And when I’m feeling well, I still think, after decades of chronic illness, it will never happen again. This is grace.
It is Holy Week, a time in which Christians reflect on the miracles of Christ’s death and resurrection. It is Passover which celebrates the Jewish peoples’ liberation from slavery in Egypt. It is also the month of Ramadan, and as in the Christian and Jewish faiths, it is a time for all of us to strengthen our relationship with God. I don’t know what will happen the next time Ron and I are faced with something like this, but I have faith that angels like Kelli and my mom will appear to help.
Have time for a song? Bonnie Raitt- Angel From Montgomery
