• Brian D. Hinson

Ubering Home from the Hospital

It happens now and again, a call to pick up someone at a hospital. Sometimes it’s an employee, sometimes, a patient being released. Saturday night, it was the latter.

Lisa (I never use real names), with short, dark hair and a glum expression, was in a wheelchair, her leg in a cast. Her aunt and a nurse was with her waiting under the bright lights of the Presbyterian emergency entrance. They said they didn’t need any help placing Lisa in the back seat. After some “ows” and “errs” Lisa was seated, her injured leg stretched across the whole back.

“Can you get the seat belt on like that?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“All right, no problem.” I truly hoped it wouldn't be a problem.

With her aunt seated beside me, we left the hospital behind. This was Lisa’s seventh surgery on that same leg. Something went wrong with the last one, and metal was poking inside her where there was not supposed to be anything poking. So, surgery number seven.

Once pulled up to Lisa’s apartment, assistance was required. I held Lisa’s arm as she did the majority of the maneuvering out of the backseat, adding a few pained shouts as finally got her good foot on the pavement and stood upright. Propping her up on her crutches, (“I’m a pro at this,” she told me), she made a few steps on her own before her aunt came and gave her a little additional support. Pro or no, this was fresh surgery.

Both Lisa and her aunt thanked me for the help, and they disappeared into the apartment.

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