The columnist’s father suffers a broken hip, renewing questions about declining health, medical care and euthanasia.
Last time I wrote about my dad, he’d taken a fall in his bedroom, couldn’t get up, but didn’t want yet another ride in an ambulance. So my mother got down on the floor with him, pulled up a blanket and they went to sleep.
This time they went down together, falling in the street outside a Burger King in the Bay Area town of Pittsburg. He was using a walker with my mom assisting, but he lost his balance and dragged my mother down with him.
She was OK, but my dad was hurting. An ambulance happened to be going by, scooped him up and the verdict in the emergency room was a broken hip.
For a senior, those two dreaded words — “broken hip” — are often the beginning of the end. Doctors said that without surgery, my father would probably die within three months. But surgery itself could kill him, given his weak heart.
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h/t Michael Fugate