How many people are qualified for really, life scary emergencies? How many people know when it’s the right time to push the button, call 911, cry out for help?

I think like most people, that moment for me is only clear in hindsight.

When I got back from errands, having left Papa alone for forty minutes, I found him seated with his leg up…and a garish, large, black purple hematoma growing on his shin. Twice the size of an overripe plum, and just as black.

“Ok, we have to get you to Dr Thomas!”

I place the call to her office, can I come right in?, they ask.

“Papa, let’s get your shoes on, we are going to see Dr. Thomas.”

“Oh, right now? Why, papa, my ribs hurt, I can’t move.”

“Your ribs hurt too? Can you breathe ok?”

“Well, yes, but every now and then a sharp pain.”

As if on cue, he starts and cries out, reaching for his right side.

I get his shoes on, then get him standing. He is a bit shaky. We head out into the hallway toward the stairs.

Each step down causes some pain. At the bottom, he is ashen faced, sweating.

“Papa, I feel sick….”

I wheel him toward the kitchen sink, where he proceeds to vomit for two minutes.

I call 911.

“Hi, this isn’t a lights and siren emergency…” I explain the situation to the dispatcher. He oddly keeps telling me to calm down, while I am remarkably calm and speaking slowly. I realize he is reading from a script. I play along.

Within four minutes a police officer is at our door. I have Papa in an easy chair in our kitchen.

Over the next thirty minutes our kitchen fills up with three more officers, two paramedics and three ambulance attendants. Lots of bags and equipment and a gurney too big for the back porch. So out the front door Papa goes. Neck brace, heart monitor, IV.  Bumping and jostling along the stone path.

Talking and telling jokes the whole way.

I follow along in my car, register him at the emergency clinic front desk and then I am escorted to the back. With my cell phones last battery juice, I call my mother to cancel the DC hotel for the night and text my Manhattan client to cancel our meeting.

The clinic medical staff care for Papa, who is now growing irritated. No more Mr. Entertainer. He is mad about the wait, the bed, the neck brace. He’s done.

A physicians assistant comes into his room, tells him he doesn’t need X-rays, tells him to keep the leg elevated and to see Dr. Thomas in a week. Call if it gets infected. She leaves.

Papa, glaring after her, swears in Italian.

Then two orderlies arrive to take him to X-ray. Confusion ensues about yes or no on the X-rays. In the end they whisk him off to X-ray his shin only, no rib X-rays required.

He arrives back in time for the main nurse to give him discharge orders. Papa has to pee. She directs him to put his pants on. He whines that he can’t walk. I draw the curtain to step outside and give him privacy.

“Where is my daughter going?! Why is she running away?!?” His voice echoes loud in the almost empty cavernous clinic bay. He is in a panic, crying down the hallway, shouting out my name.

The nurse tries to calm him. He is having none of it.

“Mr. Manocchia, please, just have a seat there and put your pants on. Your daughter is right outside. We’ll walk to the bathroom.” Part of a nurses training must be in voice modulation. I’m in awe of how tempered hers is right now, in the face of this screaming maniac.

“I’m falling!” He yells, “I’m FAAAALLING!!!”

The nurse croons “You’re not falling, you’re fine. When you say you’re falling it makes us nervous. But I’m watching you and you are fine.”

In the end, Papa is wheeled to the bathroom in a chair, and then out to my car, which I have brought around to the front.

Mr. Charming has returned.

“You nurses are remarkable, truly. Thank you. My daughter is remarkable as well. Such a hard worker.”

I turn on the radio and drive us home.