Red Face Turning Redder (Part Four)

For a few minutes, I thought I was going to receive my inheritance, but before I tell you that story, let me tell you this one:
     When my Mom was still alive, she and Dad were watching their favorite soap opera, As The Stomach Turns, or some such nonsense. She had made my father a nice chicken sandwich, and he was sitting there simultaneously eating his food and complaining about how stupid the characters were on the soap opera.
     "Don't talk while you're eating," my mother told him, mainly, because she had served him poultry, not seafood. (See food, get it?)
     "I'm not talking while I'm..."
     All of a sudden, he starts to choke on a piece of chicken.
     "I warned you not to talk while you're eating," my Mom scolded him, thinking it wasn't as serious as it was.
     My Dad made no reply. Mainly because a chunk of chicken had wedged in his windpipe, and air was neither going in or out. He couldn't make any sounds, much less any words.
     He grabbed his throat with both hands in the international sign of choking, although I'm sure he did it more by accident, than by rational thought. Who can be rational when they're in the middle of choking to death?
     My Mom started to panic, and, in her panic, she grabbed the TV remote, and was going to turn it off, the noise from the TV was too distracting. That's when my Dad angrily made the international sign of You'd Better Not Turn Off The TV! with his hands.
     He finally coughed out whatever had gotten stuck, took a few breaths of oxygen... and then started eating his chicken again.
     When my Mom told me this story, I turned to my Dad and asked him why he got so angry with her for trying to turn off the TV set.
     "If I was gonna die," he explained, "I wanted to die watching my favorite TV show."
     Well, he had his reasons. I guess.
     Anyway...
     I was having dinner. Dad was at his favorite chair at the head of the table (MY chair, or, at least, it used to be.), and, as usual, I'm eating at the kitchen island. The older my Dad gets, the more noises he seems to make when he's eating, and it kind of grosses me out. Smack! Slurp! Ack! I try to ignore it. Smack! Sometimes I can. Sluuurp! Sometimes I can't. Ack!
     I look over at my Dad. He's eating with great enthusiasm. He usually does. He's really putting his food away. I can't blame him. My wife's a good cook. In fact, she's a great cook. I'd tell her that myself, but she served us, and then had to leave. She and a few of her friends are doing a Zumba exercise class. She doesn't invite me, because she knows I would girl-watch more than I would Zumba.
     I don't know why she think she needs to take that class, however.
     "You look fine," I tell her.
     "I'm fat," she tells me.
     "You're not fat."
     "I need to lose weight."
     "You don't need to lose weight."
     "Yes, I do."
     "No, you don't."
     "Yes, I do."
     And on it goes. Truthfully, she doesn't need to lose weight. She's done a fine job of keeping it off all these years. But, even if she did lose weight, what good does that do me? It would be like me owning a Ferrari, and only being allowed to drive it on the weekends, if you get my drift.
     So I'm in the house alone with my Dad. And he starts coughing...
     "Are you okay, Dad?"
     Cough!
     "Yeah, I'm fine."
     ...and coughing...
     "Are you sure?"
     He waves me off.
     ...and then he really starts coughing. He's having trouble catching his breath, his red face turning redder.
     As he coughs some more, he's still waving me off, and I'm busy trying to remember: Is it two compressions and fifteen breaths, or is it two breaths and fifteen compressions? Should I get help? Call 911? The Pope?
     Meanwhile, he continues to cough very hard and very loud.
     Cough, cough, cough!
     "I'm okay, I'm okay," he sort of says.
     Cough, cough, cough!
     It sounds like something's stuck in his throat, and he's having a hard time getting it down, along with everything else that might be hanging around in there due to his illness, all that green stuff, and who knows what else.
     After several minutes, I ask him, "Dad, do you want some water?" Maybe the Heimlich?
     No sooner do I get up, get him a glass of water, and set it down in front of him, than he starts to settle down.
     "Are you sure you're okay, Dad?"
     And he continues to eat!
     My Mom wasn't exaggerating for the sake of making a good story better.
     He shovels another spoonful of food into his mouth, and whispers, between tiny coughs, "Ahh... ohh... hmm..."
     "What?" I ask, and immediately kick myself, because I'm aware that I might just set him off on another choking spree.
     He's trying to swallow down some food and suck down a breath of air at the same time.
     "I told you I was fine," he chastises me, between bites.
     So much for my inheritance.
    
    

Raising My Father

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

  

I Like The Dark (Part Three)

Well, my Dad has been sick for several days now, but he doesn't listen. He continues on his walks. In the cold. In the wet. It doesn't matter. We ask him not to. We tell him not to. It doesn't matter. He knows better. He always knows better. He's determined to walk his illness away. When he comes back, he's tired. And not feeling well. He thinks walking will help him live forever, but it just might be the death of him.
     At this particular time, I'm in sitting in the great room. All the lights are off. The drapes are closed. I like the cold. I like the dark. I guess that makes me Team Edward. I swear, my Dad must have a camera somewhere inside the house, with the receiver in his room, because he'll stay in his little father-in-law house until one of us, mainly me, enters the kitchen or the great room, and then, seconds later, he'll walk right through the kitchen door. My theory is that he is constantly monitoring us on his receiver, and as soon as he sees us moving, he gets moving as well. Out of his house and into ours.
     I'm drinking a cup of hot chocolate (Why not coffee? you ask. Good question. Well, sometimes life is more than the status quo. But, I'll admit, I add a heaping teaspoon of instant coffee to add some kick to my cocoa.
     "Why don't you just have coffee?" my wife will ask me.
     "Because I don't want coffee," I'll tell her. "I want chocolate."
     She just doesn't understand. For the record, sometimes I'll even put a spoonful of instant coffee on my vanilla ice cream, and mix it up.
     "Why don't you just buy coffee ice cream?" she'll inquire.
     "Dad doesn't like coffee ice cream," I'll explain.
     "What does that have to do with anything?"
     "Only everything."), and peacefully watching the History Channel. Is life good, or what?
     No sooner do I get relaxed, than I hear the door in the kitchen open, and see my dad walking in. How did he know I was there? I rest my case.
     As he enters, I can hear him breathing audibly through a runny and congested nose. How is it even possible to have both at the same time? Well, my Dad does.
     Sniffle, sniffle! Cough, cough, cough!
     He walks right by me...
     Achoo! Cough, cough, cough!
     ...before he makes it to his favorite chair a few feet away. I sit still, trying to hold my breath until the germs settle on the floor and furniture, but within seconds of him sitting--Achoo! Achoo!--barely covering his nose with his filthy handkerchief. Then it's cough, cough, cough with no attempt to cover up. Is it just getting old? Is that what it is? You get old, and you forget to cover your mouth? Or do you no longer care?
     I don't want to be rude by getting up and leaving, so I start praying for a distraction. It was a long fifteen minutes of his coughing and sneezing and sniffing.
     Cough, cough! Achoo! Sniffle, sniffle!
     Finally, there is salvation. My wife shows up.
     "Hi, honey," I tell her, get up, give her a kiss, and use my momentum to exit the room. I take my cup to the kitchen sink.
     My wife tells my Dad good morning, and I continue to use my momentum to exit the room, go up the stairs, and into the bathroom in the master bedroom to wash my face and hands. I can't afford to get sick. I have hiking to do, and road trips to take.
     When my wife is sick, she stays in her room. When I'm sick, I stay in my room. But not my Dad. He loves to spread his joy around. When he's sick, he likes to be in the middle of a room full of people, and tell everybody to quit making so much noise.
     "Why don't you go rest in your room, Dad?" we tell him.
     "Why would I want to do that?" he tells us.
     "Because it's quiet."
     "It's quiet here."
     "You just told us to quit making so much noise."
     "Well, it's quiet now."
     "You can rest."
     "I'm resting now."
     "You can lay down and rest."
     "I don't want to lay down."
     It's no use. I'd better go take some vitamin C. For prevention.
     Cough!

Raising My Father 

@JimDuchene

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

   

Green Slimy Stuff (Part Two)

What starts off as a good morning changes in the blink of an eye.
     I'm sitting in the kitchen at my favorite spot, enjoying a nice hot cup of coffee. I'm waiting for my wife to serve me breakfast. She doesn't serve me because she has to, she serves me because she loves me.
     Don't judge me because I'm beautiful.
     My Dad walks in just as my wife puts a plate of food in front of me. He has that kind of timing.
     "Good morning, Dad," my wife tells him happily.
     I look at my breakfast. Two eggs, over easy. Just the way I like them.
     "Good morning, Dad," I tell him, also happily. Food, I hate to admit, makes me happy.
     "Good morning," he tells the two of us, but I really know he's talking to my wife. "Well, I'm feeling better."
     Feeling better? I didn't even know he wasn't feeling well.
     "I was blowing my nose," he continues, settling in right beside me, "and some green stuff came out."
     I'm trying to tune him out, so I can eat my breakfast.
     "At first, my mucus was a light green, and slimy..."
     I cut up my eggs.
     "...but now, when I blow my nose..."
     Grab a slice of bread.
     "...the mucus is a darker green..."
     Look at my eggs.
     "...and even more slimy."
     Even more slimy? How is that even possible?
     "I'm blowing my nose constantly...
     I drop the bread on my plate. I've just lost my appetite.
     "...I don't know what it is..."
     My wife doesn't get as grossed out about stuff like green slimy mucus, the way I do. Maybe it has something to do with raising babies.
     "...but it sure is disgusting."
     I take a sip of coffee.
     "I'm feeling better," my dad concludes, and then takes out his handkerchief and gives his schnoz a good, hard honk.
     He takes a peek.
     My breakfast concludes, as well.
     Handkerchiefs. Yeech! I can't think of anything more disgusting.
     He folds up his handkerchief, and stuffs it back into his left-front pant pocket.
     He blew his nose so hard I'm almost surprised he didn't find his brains in that filthy piece of cloth of his.
     Why doesn't he just use Kleenex instead?
     Kleenex, I think to myself. Ah, the brilliance of American ingenuity.
     Anyway...
     My breakfast... the eggs... they don't look so good to me now.
     Maybe I'll just toast myself a slice of hard, week-old bread instead.
     Or a cracker.
     Yeah, that sounds about right.
  

  

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

  

The Sky Is Black! (Part One)

The more things change, the more they stay the same.
     It's been raining here for over a week. I've already let the dogs go outside to do their business this morning. They weren't too happy about it, but they do what they're told. My Dad, on the other hand, is a stubborn old coot. I call him an old coot with affection. Besides, that's what he is. Me, too, for that matter.
     He's sitting in his favorite chair. Not the one in the great room, but the one at the kitchen table. At the HEAD of the kitchen table. You know... MY chair. So he's sitting in my chair, the way he usually does, and he keeps talking about going for a walk.
     "You'll have to skip your walk today, Dad," I tell him. "It's raining."
     "No, it's not," he tells me.
     Not raining? That catches me by surprised. It's only been raining for the past week. This morning's no different.
     "Of course it's raining," I tell him. "Look outside."
     "I am looking outside," he says from the relative dryness of the kitchen table. "It's not raining."
     "Touch your dog, Dad. He's wet. That's because it's raining."
     My Dad calls his dog over, and pets him affectionately. I can tell by the look on his face that he was hoping for a dry dog to prove me wrong, but the look on his face tells me that he's just touched a cold, wet, stinky dog. But my Dad, like I've said before, is stubborn.
     "He's dry as a bone," my Dad says, telling a bald-faced lie.
     The situation is starting to get frustrating.
     "He's wet, Dad, because it's raining. Can't you hear it?"
     "Hear what?"
     "The rain."
     "The what?"
     "The rain."
     My Dad listens, or at least pretends to.
     "I don't hear anything," he finally says.
     "Listen."
     "I am listening. I still don't hear anything."
     My Dad's determined that it's not raining. Even when it is. Well, enough from me. He can be as stubborn as he wants to be, but rain is rain. I know enough to quit while I'm still ahead.
     That's when my wife makes her entrance. She comes downstairs from our bedroom, and walks into the kitchen just as I decide to quit arguing with my Dad. That's what I like about my wife, she's got good timing.
     "Good morning, Dad," she tells him cheerfully. "How 'bout that rain? When's it going to stop?"
     My Dad looks at me, and sniffs.
     "I'm going for a walk," he tells her, but not rising from his chair.
     "A walk?" she yelps in surprise. "But, Dad, it's raining."
     "No, it's not," he tells her. "Touch my dog."
     I remember telling her something similar when we were first dating. All it got me was a hard punch in the gut. I still laugh about it, and she still pretends to be offended.
     "Dad," she tries to use reason on him. That's her first mistake. "It's been raining all week."
     "Yeah, but it's stopped. Now's my chance to get my walk out of the way. Before it starts up again."
     "Dad, it hasn't stopped."
     "Sure it has. Touch my dog. He's dry as a bone."
     She looks at me. I shake my head. No, they're not.
     "I'm not going to touch your wet dog, Dad."  That's similar to what she told me... just before she punched me in the gut. Anyway, she tells him that it's still raining, and, besides that, the rain clouds are low. Not only is it wet, but it's also foggy out there.
     "No, it's not," my Dad insists.
     "Yes, it is," my wife insists.
     "It's stopped," my Dad informs her.
     "No, it hasn't," she informs my Dad.
     My Dad looks outside.
     "Look, it's stopped," he tells her, motioning outside.
     She looks outside. It is raining. I look outside. It is raining. She looks at me, and walks away. She's officially just as frustrated as I had been a few minutes earlier. Now I'm no longer frustrated. I'm laughing on the inside from the reality show I've just seen.
     Why does my Dad insist it's not raining, when it obviously is? He gets up, and walks to the back door leading out of the kitchen and into the rain. To get a better look outside, I guess. A better look at the rain that doesn't exist. He's probably trying to will the rain to stop, but it doesn't. The rain's as stubborn as my Dad.
     When I was in my teens I was probably about as obnoxious a know-it-all as they come. You know, your typical teenager. I thought I was just exceptionally smart, however, and that lead to countless arguments between my father and I. I thought the way to win an argument with my Dad was to just argue louder than him. My Dad thought the way to win an argument with me was to tell me, "The sky is black!"
     The sky is black. What he meant by that was that it didn't matter if he was wrong. If he said something was so, then it was so. Of course, I didn't buy his logic for a second, and that lead to even more arguments. And that brings us back to...
     "It's not raining," he finally tells us. "I'm going on my walk."
     What can we do? Tie him down? I don't think I even have enough duck tape to do the job. Plus, after he's escaped, I'd be under arrest for kidnapping him or something like that.
     He grabs his windbreaker, his hat, and heads outside.
     TWO minutes later, he's back. Wet and cold. He walks in, shaking his head.
     "It's raining," he tells us.
     Yeah, no kidding.
 
 

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene