The next development had nothing to do with David’s bladder.  I got a call from the nurse one morning because David had fallen, and it was impossible to determine whether he had hit his head.  He was having trouble talking, and he couldn’t stand or walk.  He needed to be evaluated in the ER, and he couldn’t return to assisted living memory care if he couldn’t stand or walk on his own because the facility wasn’t equipped for two-person transfers. 

I asked a few questions and then asked the nurse whether she thought it was safe for me to take David to the ER.  She thought it was – and I didn’t need to cancel any classes because I wasn’t scheduled to teach that day.  I hung up and fetched that emergency “go bag.”  I checked the contents and filled the water bottles – I hadn’t seen a functioning water fountain since the pandemic began.  I put the bag in the car and set out.  When I pulled into the parking lot, the nurse wheeled David to the car and helped me get him into the passenger seat.  He wept a little when he saw me; talk of an ambulance had scared the living daylights out of him.  He fell asleep as soon as I started the car.

At the ER, we waited in a long line, six feet apart.  David had fallen asleep in the wheelchair, and I couldn’t get to the wallet in his back pocket.  I pulled out the folder and found the photocopies of his state ID and insurance cards.  The receptionist accepted them. 

We’d arrived at 8 a.m.  Hours went by.  David woke only for a few minutes at long intervals.  His speech was both slurred and confusing, as if he were sleep-talking.  I read for classes, answered email, tried to keep his mask over his nose and mouth, and tried not to think about all the coughing and sneezing. David needed the bathroom a couple of times but still couldn’t stand or walk.  I managed to wrestle him onto the toilet and back into the wheelchair, and some kind of good luck prevented another fall.

Finally, after 5 p.m., someone called us back to an exam room.  There we went on waiting, and David went on sleeping.  At least we weren’t getting coughed on.  When the doctor arrived, I handed him the overview of David’s medical conditions.  He checked David’s reflexes and asked a few questions.  Now that he’d slept all day, David could respond to some of the questions.  The doctor told us that he was signing a release for David to return to memory care.  Oh, no, I thought.  They won’t take him back if he can’t walk, and then what?  We’ll be back here in the middle of the night.  “Just one minute,” I said. “Could you please watch him walk before you discharge him?  He can’t return to assisted living unless he’s mobile.”  The doctor was clearly annoyed – he probably had severely ill COVID patients stacked in every corner of the ER.  But he helped David to his feet.  David leaned against the exam table for a bit and tried to shuffle forward.  The doctor caught him as he lost his balance.

“We’ll admit him for observation,” the doctor said curtly.  He left the room. 

The clock went on ticking.  After a while, the pharmacist came in and asked about David’s medications.  I handed him the list from the folder.  Why was he not checking the electronic chart?  Why would anybody trust me rather than the list in the chart, the same list that the assisted living nurse used to order his meds?  “This is great,” he murmured.  He placed the order for evening meds.  I gave him the list of contraindicated meds for patients with LBD.  Once David was admitted, I wouldn’t be allowed to visit, and I wouldn’t have a way to monitor his meds.  All I could do was hand over the list and hope. 

When the people in scrubs showed up to roll David to a room, I trailed along.  A few people looked at me sidewise, but nobody said anything.  I used to be more easily intimidated, more deferential.  Now I ignored the signs that said “no visitors past this point” and followed David on his rolling bed right to his room.  Just as a frustrated nurse showed up to chide me, I called goodbye and made my way back to the elevator.

I’d wanted to keep him out of the ER and out of the hospital — was this a mistake?  I talked to Fiona.  He couldn’t walk, so he couldn’t return to assisted living.  I wouldn’t be able to care for him by myself, and getting caregivers in those pre-vaccine days of the pandemic was impossible.  In terms of COVID, a hospital was a dangerous setting – but long-term care was at least equally dangerous.  If this episode followed the same pattern as the one in January, he would regain some mobility in the coming days.  Fiona and I hoped for a brief hospital stay and a return to his room in memory care.