After the Fall

Sometimes a battle for the day gets won

The following piece is one in a series of letters to my prospective granddaughter.

January 19, 2025

Dear Baby,

A normal Sunday morning: something to savor. No annoying household tasks like laundry, a straight shot for getting to work at my Starbucks “office” and breaking ground on a chapter about a woman I don’t particularly like. I’m on my way when I get the call: your uncle Ryland is hurt. Your grandmother was dropping him to get some coffee before his work shift started at 8 a.m. and he slipped on black ice in the parking lot, landing on his elbow. He shook it off and headed to the supermarket floor. His boss noticed him struggling, brought him to the front desk to fill out some paperwork, and sent him home. Grandma went to pick him up.

So what are we talking about? Something broken? Sprained? How long will he be out of commission? I’m as worried about your uncle’s mental state as I am his physical one. He’s minimizing it all, of course. But when I get home your grandmother says it’s really not that bad. But he’s going to need a doctor’s OK before he can get to work.

No big deal. We make an appointment for an urgent care center a mile away. As we leave, I ask about that paperwork and learn that there’s a fairly detailed form that has to be filled out. OK. But when we get the office we learn: No go—the doctor won’t do this kind of thing. Has to be a primary care physician. (Ry doesn’t have one; he upended my effort to get him one this fall.) Now we have the challenge of just getting something scheduled, much less getting him cleared. How long will that take? On the way out the door, the receptionist says a different urgent care center nearby might work. Why would it, I ask? She gives me an answer I don’t understand. But I also don’t see a better option.

We arrived just as the snowstorm that’s been forecast gets underway. After getting the attention of the overworked receptionist we learn yes, Ry can get that form filled out. But insurance won’t cover it. $225. Cheap at the price, I think—if it works. We sit down for a long wait. The calvary arrives in the form of your grandmother bringing books for Ry and I to tide us over as the vigil continues. But shortly after she leaves, we get summoned. The doctor, a genial fellow, agrees that your uncle is fine. Scribbles on the sheet, tells me to make sure we get the necessary stamp of approval at the front desk, and we head back to the supermarket to turn in the paperwork. We get home just as the snow is really beginning to accumulate.

This, truly, is a happy ending. The bureaucratic hurdles of workmen’s comp and the medical industrial complex, not to mention the prospect of a serious injury, all averted. The grim pleasure is satisfying because of the knowledge that this could have really turned into an open-ended situation with indefinite resolution. As indeed will happen at some point soon. But for now equilibrium is restored. Not a normal day. But I’ll call it a victory.

Still waiting for something I can call a good day. Been a while. But to live is to hope. So it is, dear child, that we live, and measure, our days.