On November 9, 2010 at 6:35pm PST while preparing to shower away a booty-kicking spin
class, I received this text from my mother: "dad
fell off the roof this evening and broke both his
heels one worse than the other. i posting on facebook. when i know more you'll know more. love ya."
After rereading the text a few times, rubbing my eyes in disbelief, I dropped my towel and called my mother. Keep in mind, I work with veterans who have traumatic brain injuries, including
several who have sustained injuries falling off roofs, balconies, etc. Visions of him laying in the front yard with his skull cracked open and brain
matter splattered across the clematis vines danced through my mind. I grilled my mother for ten straight minutes asking her what happened, if he had lost consciousness, if the paramedics administered the Glasgow Coma Scale and what his score was, if he had any internal injuries, and
many others. Apparently after falling from the SECOND story, he attempted to stand up, realized his feet and some ribs were busted and then proceeded to ask their traumatized neighbors if they would kindly put him in his car
so my Mom could drive him to the hospital. Yes, he attempted to stand and walk it off. Yes, he knew he was fucked up. No, he did not call for an ambulance. (He’ll tell you he wouldn’t let mom call for an ambulance because they cost too damn much.) Badasses don't roll with an ambulance,
they provide their own transportation to the ER.
Now the neighbors had come over because they
heard the bang of him and the ladder crashing down. They thought a car coming down the street had hit a parked car, so they came out to see what had happened. Instead they found my mom outside with my dad sitting on the ground. My
neighbors loaded him up in the Pimpmobile and
my mother drove him to the new St. John hospital. However, this brand new, three story with two wings hospital that has a big red EMERGENCY sign was apparently "not a trauma center, it’s just a stand-alone urgent care facility and they had no beds or anything, and he needed to go to a different hospital!" according to the nurses. Rather than take an ambulance to a hospital with a real emergency center as the nurses insisted, my dad again said to mom, “Get in the car and let’s go to another hospital.” He's
serious about providing his own transportation - I did mention us Wells' are rather independent, right?
My parents finally made it to the correct hospital where my dad was admitted, poked, prodded and diagnosed with two broken heels (one shattered) and a couple of compressed ribs. Luckily he had no internal injuries and no head injuries. I’m told he continued his day of badassery by teasing the nurses while they were cutting his pants off of
him.
According to the grapevine the King of Badasses had already planned a couple of days off from work for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday and ended up missing only three extra days of work total from the initial accident and the subsequent surgery to put a metal plate in his foot. Yep, that’s right, my dad can totally kick your dad’s ass!
However, it is here I diverge from explaining to you what a badass my Dad is to insert an amusing twist in this story.
It was only AFTER talking with the doctors (4 hours later) did my mom disseminate the news of his fall. Rather than call her offspring, my Mother, who is more social networking tech savvy than I am, thought the most efficient way to disseminate the news was via FaceBook.
“Jerry felt off the roof today and is now in Henry Ford with two broken heels. Guess we will see what the orthopedic surgeon guy has to say tomorrow. With sarcasm dripping off my mouth,
this has been the end to what was probably a wonderful day--not for Jerry though.” 6:35 PST - Yes, it is posted as the exact same time as her text to me.
While she is correct that this is indeed the most efficient way to transmit data these days, I have a feeling I will never know if she posted the news of my Dad’s accident on FaceBook before or after texting my brother and me. While my dad is overtly the Commander in Chief of Badasses, I have a feeling my mom is secretly one step behind him.
For anyone concerned about the health of my father, I saw him over Christmas, and His
Highness was doing well enough to chase me around the house using a walker. (Mom’s comment - Now you have to tell them the next day after his accident he had a wheelchair and I caught him in the garage doing fucking wheelies.)
March follow-up. Dad is out of the wheelchair, off the cane, is walking around, and the ortho doctor said that since he’s 3-4 weeks ahead of the power
curve he’s not going to assign rehab, and doesn’t want to see him again for any follow-ups. So now he’s just waiting for the bad weather to end so he can go back to riding his toy.
Dad's bionic foot!
Dad's Toys!!
