This whole mess could happen to any of us. One minute you’re reaching for a cookie, the next you’re in a hospital bed with a catheter and a view of a parking lot. It’s absurd, and deeply human. Betty’s family is now arguing about whether she needs a medical alert button. “I’m not wearing a necklace that screams ‘I’m old,’” she says. “I’ll just scream ‘Help!’ like my mother did.” And she’ll probably be fine, because she’s 82 and has survived worse things, like her first husband’s toupee.
So the next time you see a news headline about an elderly woman with life-threatening injuries, don’t just wince. Smile a little. Imagine Betty in her hospital gown, complaining about the Jell-O, plotting against her cat, and scolding the physical therapist. She’s not a statistic; she’s a vibe. She’s the personification of “I’ll rest when I’m dead, and even then I’ll probably want a snack.”
As I write this, Betty is getting ready to leave the hospital. She’s still a little wobbly, still a little bruised, but her sense of humor is intact. “They’re sending me home with a walker,” she told Linda. “But I’m going to decorate it with fairy lights and a cup holder.” That’s not a life-threatening problem. That’s a win. And if Mr. Whiskers tries that again, she’s taking his treats away for a week. Or at least until the cookies run out.
