It started out as a fairly routine day.
My computer guru came by to sort out a couple of minor problems, then we had to adjourn to meet some close friends for coffee. Their cousin was flying back to Britain tomorrow and we wanted to wish her bon voyage.
As we entered the coffee shop my cell phone rang. It was Kenny, my youngest son. “Dad, Scott is in the Emergency Room at Palomar Hospital. You’d better call mom. She’s all shook up. Scott was bleeding like a stuck pig and she ran him to ER. We don’t know what happened.”
Called Mary. She said she had been up about 6am, went back to bed about 7am, heard a noise, then a thud. Got up and Scott was lying on the bathroom floor, soaked in blood.
I left the coffee shop, went to the ER, met Scott. He was all stitched up, had an IV in his arm, and looked like hell. He told me he was wearing socks, went into the bathroom, slipped on the shiny and slick marble floor, cracked his head on the counter of the sink. Doesn’t sound right to me.
Turns out he also had four broken ribs but that, I found out, was from something else on Sunday.
He was in a lot of pain so the nurse gave him morphine. I knew he’d be going off to LaLa Land so left. The nurse told me they’d probably kick him out later in the day, rather than admit him. She said she would call either me or Mary when he was ready to be picked up.
Scott delivers papers for me on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Obviously, he was in no condition to deliver papers so dear old dad became a paper boy. Four hours later I was absolutely bushed. Pooped. Fortunately, I got a call from Mary saying Scott was ready to come home . . . so I called it a day, went to the hospital and picked him up.
I’ll deliver papers tomorrow as well (I only got about half of Scott’s route done; he can do almost all of it in one day but (a) he’s a former UPS driver and knows routing, (b) he’s just a few years younger than me, and (c) he’s got a bit more endurance than me.) Scott said he wanted to ride with me as he could guide me on the most expeditious routing . . . I agreed . . . if he still feels up to it. He may be too sore. If he’s too sore, I think the old codger can pull it off. Not the most Fun Friday I’ve ever had but we’ll . . . “Get ‘er Done!”
Just another day in the exciting life of being an editor/publisher/reporter/commentator . . . and paper boy.