If the battle to control Indy and Willie looked merely like Robert Baratheon wresting the Westeros throne from the Mad King Aerys, rest assured it has erupted into a full-bore Red Wedding.
Just to be clear, I am not the Mad King in this analogy.
After Indy’s inane hospitalization a few weeks ago, I decided it was time to gently point out that maybe, just maybe, warp-speeding it to the hospital shouldn’t be the answer to everything. Indy’s most recent adventure wasn’t an isolated event, nor was my frustration.
Let’s talk about New Year’s Eve, which should have portended exactly how 2020 was going to unravel itself. Indy woke up with numbness and tingling in his left hand. Willie skipped the horses and went straight to zebras. Indy, in her opinion, was possibly having a stroke.
What a luxury it would be for Indy and Willie to have a relative, a dedicated daughter perhaps, who specialized in stroke. In that fantastical world, they would have called that daughter. That daughter would have reminded them Indy has carpal tunnel syndrome. In his left hand.
Slow your roll, that daughter would have said. This numbness is Indy’s carpal tunnel acting up. You’d be hard-pressed to find a stroke distribution afflicting the lower arm while bypassing the upper arm completely.
That daughter also would have pointed out that Indy had had extensive imaging of all the blood vessels in his head and neck imaged a scant two years prior. Indy’s arteries are as open as, well, as Willie is obstructive of my domination goals.
But on that New Year’s Eve, Indy and Willie had no such daughter. I was living on an alternate plane, believing all was right with the world. I ignored the nagging voice in my head telling me to check on Indy. I went to a party. Had some drinks. Prepped for my own party the next day.
But at eight on the morning of New Year’s Day, my existence was suddenly recollected. As I was mise en place-ing all over the kitchen, Willie called to inform me of Indy’s New Year’s Eve hospital visit.
Indy’s age and symptoms had bought him a CT scan of his head. The hospital was concerned for the old stroke they saw, deep in Indy’s brain tissue.
Not so concerned that they admitted him. Why admit Indy when this can all be his handy-dandy daughter’s problem?
Willie explained the hospital was asking for Indy to follow-up with his Parkinson’s neurologist. And since Indy’s neurological problems are my area, I was to handle the follow-up.
Now, I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, “Wait, isn’t stroke a neurological problem?” But stroke can originate from the heart too, not just the head. And Willie always kindly points out my utter ineptitude when it comes to all things cardiac.
It keeps me humble.
So come January second, I had to call the hospital for a copy of Indy’s CT scan and report. Then I had to pick up said copies. I called the neurologist to make an appointment. Then I hauled Indy to University City for a little chat with his doctor.
In case you can’t see the punchline hurtling at you, Indy’s neurologist laughed when I told him about the emergency room visit. Laughed harder when he saw the CT scan, which he proclaimed stroke-free. Laughed even harder when I looked at the images myself and rolled my eyes.
No stroke. Also, 81-year-old brains are usually a bit shrunken, putting some distance between the tissue and the skull. It’s a common side effect of aging. But not Indy. Indy’s brain was full and robust, flirting with Indy’s skull like my ninth-grade bestie flirted with that guy that was almost my boyfriend.
“It looks like the worst thing that happened was that you told your wife your hand was numb,” the neurologist quipped.
Indeed.
Indy’s most recent hospitalization risked exposing him to coronavirus. He had three unnecessary tests. I had to call his regular doctor, his cardiologist, and his neurologist. Indy needed a telehealth visit with his doctor, then an in-person visit.
Don’t worry. I attended both. Nothing went off the rails.
So when I sat down with Indy and Willie last week, my goal was to illuminate them. Surely they could see how –
Wait. I was going to say, “how awesome their lives would be if they let me handle their healthcare.” But “awesome” is trite. I turned to my trusty thesaurus for a better word. “Astonishing” is a synonym. So is “awe-inspiring,” which may be exaggerating my abilities but I’ll take it.
But the majority of “awesome” synonyms are negative. Who knew? Terrible. Dreadful. Imposing. They’re all synonyms too.
Imposing. Indeed, again.
Well anyway. I suggested Indy and Willie think about calling me before any hospital trips. I might be able to avert a few. Or all.
Willie didn’t have to think on that plan. Not one bit. “Nope,” she said. If Indy is sick, Willie isn’t willing to waste sixty seconds on a phone call to me. She’ll call me when they’re en route.
Well, then maybe Indy and Willie could have the nurse call me?
Willie wanted to know why the nurse would have to call me when Willie herself is a nurse and, as such, is perfectly capable of discussing and deciding all things medical.
I pointed out how the hospital staff, on this most recent admission, had no idea Indy’s neurologist had cleared the CT scan from New Year’s Eve. How they had no idea Indy had imaging showing just how beautifully his cerebral arteries move things along. Had I spoken to them, the hospital staff would have had that information.
You’re laughing at me, now, right? If you’ve read anything I’ve ever written, you know telling Willie she’s wrong is a quick way to gain a mortal enemy. I might as well move in with the deposed fire marshal down the hall.
This was the point in our conversation when Willie went full-on Walder Frey. I was, of course, Robb Stark, getting stabbed through the heart while Willie sent her regards. Indy, for his part, sat doubled-over, his typically silent laughter shaking his body harder than his disease shakes that pesky left hand.
Was he laughing at the sheer folly of my attempted coup? At my juvenile belief I could best Willie? At Willie’s easy takedown? Did it matter?
I’d lost. I was living the Rains of Castamere.
But when Indy and I went to his doctor yesterday, I received an unexpected boost.
He told my dad that he, the doctor, needed young eyes on both Indy and Willie. He needed my eyes on Indy and Willie. Despite Willie’s excellent track record, her love and adoration for Indy make decisions difficult, he said.
My love and adoration for Indy make decisions difficult for me, too. But I sensed a win. I kept my mouth shut.
Indy’s doctor told him that – get this – Indy and Willie are to buy me an Apple Watch. They have to let me link their watches to mine, so I can see if they’re moving, breathing, falling. They are to let me control every aspect of their lives because I’m just so good at it, a bright and talented clinician, one they’re lucky to have.
He didn’t say that last part. Just the Apple Watch stuff.
I rode my victory straight into Indy and Willie’s apartment, grinning like The Joker when I told Willie what the doctor said.
“I don’t believe you,” Willie said, her voice cool. “But you have my credit card. Go ahead and buy the watch.”
That’s as close to a win as I’m going to get. And if you’ve ever watched Game of Thrones, or know Willie, you know that I have moved on from being Robb Stark.
I am Daenerys Targaryen, the Iron Throne just feet away.
And look at what happened to her.
Indeed. For the last time.
