More grand opening

My sister Carolyn, talking to Roger, the building manager who was such a peach.  My brother Bryan and Dad are in the background.

The opening was great, and everyone enjoyed it--our Provo/Orem kids came up and we had a chance to visit with each of them.  Dad was happy, but exhausted, as we came to the end and cleaned up.

He insisted that he was taking his children out to dinner, to his favorite Chinese restaurant.  Once upon a time, you really couldn't find a good Chinese restaurant in Salt Lake, but this one a few blocks west of Temple Square is good, and we've been there together before.  He is one of their good customers, and they know him.

It was a little later than intended as we were ready to go for dinner, and we couldn't get a parking spot on the block, so we had to go way around the corner.  Salt Lake City blocks are LONG.  (Blame Brigham Young, but the street were also wide, which was a good thing when cars came along.)

We were in two cars,  and the people in the other one found a place and were in the restaurant ahead of us.  Some of us were slower, so Dad, Bill, and I were bringing up the rear.  I was behind Dad, approaching the restaurant, as suddenly he tripped and sprawled forward.  There was a low pedestal/bulbout, which was painted a dark red and not instantly visible in the dark, and he went right into it.  I would have done the same a second later, I couldn't see it either.

I rushed in through the door, and yelled for help.  The owner came out with the family, went back in and returned with a chair into which we were able to leverage my father from the ground.  He was bleeding from his right hand, and it appeared that he would need stitches in it.  From the other side of him, someone gasped as they saw a large 'goose egg' swelling up on the side of his forehead, so the restaurant owner went back in and came out with a bag of ice to hold on it.  He didn't want to give up on dinner, but he was in no shape to go in, and the consensus that he would need stitches in that cut persuaded him that he had no real way out of going to the hospital.  Alison's husband opined firmly that he had had a good conk on his head, and needed to get that addressed, so their son who had been playing chauffeur brought that car around and took off with Dad, Mom, and my brother Bryan (who refused Dad's instruction that he should stay with us).  Dad insisted that we should still go have the dinner he had arranged, and pressed his menu selections into my hand.  Figuring that it would upset him more for us to bag dinner, we obeyed.  We also recognized that we didn't need to arrive en masse at the E.R., there would only be chaos and more stress.

All through our meal, the owner and the waitress kept returning to ask if he was all right.  We soon realized that Mom had started to give me her car keys, and then gave me her credit card instead, when it should have been in addition to.  So there were six people, a car around the next block which would fit five, and no way to drive it.  Thank goodness for text messaging, sometimes modern life has its advantages--Richard texted (less obtrusive to whatever was happening than calling), John answered, and when the food had come we asked for boxes and portioned some out for those who were at the hospital; then John drove back with the keys to the other car, picked up the food boxes, and went back to the hospital, where it was a couple more hours before they were done. 

Since we had more bodies than space in the car, three of us opted to walk through the new City Creek Center and then to the condo, and I drove Bill and Alison.  We all made it back and waited for our parents.

The upshot was that Dad did not have a concussion, thankfully, he did have a broken left arm; he had landed catching that right little finger backwards and ruptured the skin in the inside lowest crease--where you curl your fingers into your palm--which required six stitches but wasn't deep. That's what was bleeding.  If it had been cut it might have cut into the tendon, so we were happy about that too. It's a wonder the finger didn't break.

The obstruction was a cement platform for a Chinese animal figure,  which had since been removed, and there were supposed to be lights above the two spots on either side of the entrance, but the owner said that the patrons of the club next door would break them out every day, so they gave up.  Obviously they need to do something to increase visibility after dark.  Or get something onto those platforms that won't be worth targeting to the drunks.

Dad stayed home from church on Sunday, and we didn't get to match our dark purple shirts.  (He is not a conventional dresser.)  On Monday morning, I looked at his head and noted that the bruising was spreading downward--it had reached his eyebrow, and the scabs were lovely in the center.  I joked and told him that he would have green in it the next day, and he would be just the colors of a Clapp painting of trees, which went for green, navy, and purple tones, so he should just stand next to a painting and say that he was simply being color-coordinated. 

Still smiling!

The light washed this out a bit, but the face has purple, the sling, the shirt, the strap, the hair--all the colors of the (lower) painting behind him.  Artistic no matter what, that's my father.

And, on a happy note, I'm glad I cut off the account yesterday of Saturday's events  at 5 p.m., because by leaving the rest for a second day, we have unexpected good news:  the orthopedist who was to replace the splint with a cast today found that the break was stable and would not move, so no cast was necessary.  There was new pain in that wrist, however, so they took a new X-ray and found that a bone chip from the break had migrated there and he needs to keep the wrist in a brace for now so that can solve itself; when he goes in next week to have his stitches removed, the doctor will give him another look.   But a wrist brace is much better than an arm cast, the sling can be ditched, and the new pain is explained and treated.  Everything looks good.  And so we are all very relieved and grateful, and Dad has new stories to tell.  May our next gathering be a little less attention-grabbing, that's all I can say.  Boring is sometimes just fine.