The 911 operator asked if I was alone. I lied and said “Yes,” because the honest answer hurt worse than my shattered hip.
I didn’t want to admit that I have three successful children, seven grandchildren, and a contact list full of people who “love” me—but not a single one who would notice if I didn’t answer the phone for three days.
So there I was. Room 304 of the rehabilitation center.
They call the time between 7 PM and 9 PM “visiting hours.” I call it “the torture chamber.”
That’s when you see who really matters.
In the bed to my left, Mr. Henderson has his daughter feeding him ice chips. Across the hall, a loud Italian family is smuggling in lasagna. Laughter. Life.
In my corner? Silence.
My son sent a tablet. “So we can FaceTime, Dad!” he said. It’s still in the box. I don’t know how to turn it on, and I’m too proud to ask the nurse.
