‘I can’t believe it,’ I groaned, staring at the x-ray. My doctor, a young man with entirely too much hair, smiled at me.
‘It’s quite treatable, Ms. Sanchez,’ he said politely. ‘You got quite lucky, considering—’
‘Considering what?’ I scowled.
‘Considering your advanced age,’ he said firmly. ‘Let’s not beat around the bush, Ms. Sanchez – you’re not a young woman anymore.’
‘Doctors used to be nicer.’
‘Luckily,’ he went on, ignoring me, ‘this is just a sprain, not a fracture. With some therapy, you’ll be hopping along quite nicely again. And with some lifestyle changes, maybe a bath tub conversion, you’ll be—’
‘What’s wrong with my bathtub?’
He blinked at me slowly, as if not understanding the question.
‘Didn’t you do this to yourself trying to get out of a bath?’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘But so what?’
‘Well, Ms. Sanchez —’
‘Call me Ms. Sanchez one more time and I’m going to throw this horrid pillow at you.’
‘Maria,’ he said with a smile. I tried not to let it show that I was impressed he hadn’t had to look at my chart. ‘Maria, please. There are many bathtub solutions for elderly people who can’t use a regular bath around Sydney.’
‘Well that isn’t me!’ I protested. ‘I absolutely can use my bath! I’m not an invalid!’
‘This would say otherwise,’ he flapped the x-ray at me. ‘At least for a few months.’
‘Should I get a stair lift too?’ I snapped. ‘Maybe a live-in maid to cook and clean for me? A driver to carry me around the countryside for all of my appointments?’
‘Those things sound amazing,’ the doctor laughed, putting the x-ray back on my table. ‘You don’t want a live-in maid?’
‘I value my privacy,’ I grunted. ‘I’m not interested.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, amicably. ‘But I promise, we only want to help you.’
‘We?’ I perked up. ‘Who’s we?’
‘Your son didn’t…’ he trailed off, frowning. ‘Ah. My mistake. Your son is waiting for you in the hallway.’
‘You called my son!’
‘Actually,’ the doctor said, rising out of his chair. ‘He called me. Have a good afternoon… Maria.’