Chapter 23: Mabel's Wrist

On Friday morning the triage nurse leaned into my cubicle and said, "You have a walk-in who says she's your boss."

"I don't have a boss. I have an attending."

"She's wearing a cardigan with deep pockets, and she's holding her own arm."

I was in the hall before she finished.

Mabel sat in a plastic chair by the registration window, with her red glasses on their cord and a paper bag on her knee.

Her left wrist was badly swollen and already purple.

She was eighty-two years old, and she looked at me with great dignity.

"I took the train," she said. "Faye's opening is tomorrow. I thought I'd get in early and see the city."

"What happened to your arm?"

"A curb. It was a very rude curb."

"Why didn't you call Faye?"

"Because she'd have panicked, and she has a show." Mabel lifted the paper bag. "I brought you a muffin. Don't let them take it."

I put her in a room myself.

The attending looked in and then looked at me, and he said, "You're not on her, are you?"

"She's not family."

"Isn't she?" He raised an eyebrow, and then he shrugged. "It's a wrist. Keep it quick and keep a resident beside you."

I took her back to X-ray in a wheelchair she complained about the whole way.

"I've been walking for eighty-two years."

"You're not walking now."

"I can walk perfectly well, and I will."

"Stay in the chair, Mabel."

She stayed.

The film showed a clean break near the joint, and no displacement.

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