On the Rescue of a Fallen Woman

I occasionally have a slight social mishap, which occasions some fleeting discomfiture, which only momentarily shakes my regal poise. Just occasionally.

But last week, I was the center of a ring-tailed lalapalooza.

It happened at the blood donor center at Huntington Memorial Hospital where I had gone to give autologous blood. That means you give it to yourself and the staff squirrels it away in the back of the freezer so you may have it returned to you during surgery. I have been going through an aberrational period when I have been considering having my other knee replaced with a metal and plastic one, which any bright boy of 10 could reassemble into a model train.

My left knee, already replaced, makes a mournful sound like the blues in the night. Sometimes I think it might be nice to have a matching set, and when the knee isn’t hurting, I think I’d rather have the model train. Orthopedic surgeons and treasured friends Drs. Dick Diehl and George Mulfinger, I am sure, would be grateful if I would take my custom to other orthopods. At least, they pass me back and forth as if I were a demented aunt on weekend leave from the home.

I arrived for my bloodletting on time and filled out the kind of a form you’d expect and then asked if the young woman would direct me to the ladies room. She did and on my way out I fell down.

Here’s how. The handle on the inside of the door is a lever that is perpendicular to the door. It is necessary to lift the handle to a horizontal position and then pull it toward you. I did that, but I unfortunately kept on going backward with little stutter steps until I fell down.

For most people, this would cause no trouble. You’d just get up. I, on the other hand, or rather leg, have these two unyielding knees. When I am down, I am also out of operation. I walked backward on my bottom until I was leaning against the wall and sitting on the nice, cold tile floor. I arranged my skirt over my legs in a decorous manner and sat some more.

At no time did I consider that I would not be found. I knew that the alert and professional staff would, sooner or later, realize that I had been gone too long. I did consider holding my breath until I smothered, but it didn’t seem plausible.

After a few minutes, I don’t know how long, a pleasant nurse opened the door, looked at me propped against the wall and said, “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. I sit here every day at this time. I’m surprised you’ve missed me before.”

Then she was joined by another woman and I began to think we were all going to gather until we had a quorum. I suggested that a couple of them haul me up.

“Oh no,” someone said. “We have to get security.”

And they did. After a few minutes a stalwart man in a security guard’s uniform came in and lifted me like the slip of a thing I am. I tried to produce my Mrs. Douglas Kingsley Thompson persona, but it didn’t work. All I managed to do was look like a woman who had fallen in the bathroom. Very little class.

Then we all sat down and the security man told me he would have to ask me some questions. He did and then left, saying: “I have to go back and make out my report in full.”

I don’t know what else he put in. It was all very straightforward. I managed to say, “Who gets a copy of the report?”

He ticked off about six or eight names, none of whom I wanted to share this delightful adventure.

When I fell, I put out my right hand instinctively to catch myself and it was now hurting quite smartly. The nurses were concerned and urged me to go to the emergency room, but I politely declined.

After that stimulating beginning they took my blood. They should have taken my adrenaline. I probably had more of that. And they gave me cranberry and apple juice and crackers and cheese and cookies.

Then I went home. By that time, my hand was puffed up like a popover and turning a fashionable shade of plum.

The next day, I called and asked permission to see Dr. Mulfinger whose turn it was in the bucket because Dr. Diehl was out of town.

As I came down the hall at the office, Dr. Mulfinger said, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

He is really mad for me but tries to maintain decorum. Jim, my dear friend the X-ray technician who has enough X-rays of me to start his own exhibit, took a picture of my hand.

Dr. Mulfinger gave me a lovely dressing and a metal splint and I went home. The hand? Oh, broken but just one of those little bones that connects to the finger. Of course, it means I have to cancel my vibraharp tour. Darn.