He goes out walking in the heat, in the rain, during earthquakes. If you've been paying attention to the news, you've probably read about some wild fires that have been burning close by and giving my deadbeat--I mean, fun-loving--relatives an additional reason not to use my home as a base camp for their vacation. Did all the smoke and haze keep my dad indoors like the local authorities recommended?
No.
Why do I mention all this? Well, my wife recently had a garage sale and from that garage sale I caught something from somebody that laid me low. Not low enough to keep me from getting out of bed and doing house chores for her (My wife figures that since I'm home, I might as well do something. Sick, or not.), but low enough to not be able to enjoy the nice Memorial Day weekend. Although, when you're retired, every day is a nice Memorial Day weekend.
At first, I thought it was just my allergies. Allergies are a funny thing. For forty years I didn't have any. So when I first started to get them, I thought I was just catching a lot of colds. Finally, I figured out that if my symptoms were from the neck up, it was allergies. If my symptoms extended to additional parts of my body, then it was a cold.
On a similar note, after a year of digestive troubles, I've finally figured out that I've become lactose intolerant. Lactose intolerant? Yes, lactose intolerant. It makes me think about one of my brother-in-laws. He's lactose intolerant, too. I always found it odd when he would order a pizza without cheese.
"Without cheese?" the person taking the order usually sputters.
"Yes, without cheese," my bother-in-law will answer, and then he'll go into a long dissertation about his various ailments, making the order-taker regret his career path.
When I came to my self-diagnosis, I went to the store and bought some Lactaid. That took care of the problem for the most part, cutting down on my dairy consumption took care of the rest. Why this hasn't occurred to my brother-in-law, who has suffered from lactose intolerance for as long as I've known him, is beyond me.
Lactose intolerance also comes with additional annoyances. My brother never misses an opportunity to let me know when he's eating a nice bowl of coffee ice cream. It's not his favorite, it's mine. But getting back to my current ailment...
So, when I wasn't feeling well after my wife's garage sale, since all my symptoms were above my neck it took me a while to figure out that I had a head cold.
Now, why am I talking about all this? Why am I boring you like my brother-in-law at the Pizza Hut? Because being sick at home gives me plenty of time to observe my Dad from a distance. I say "from a distance," because if my Dad even thinks someone is sick, he'll swear he's caught whatever that person has. One time, an aunt of mine (his younger sister) called him on the phone. When she let it slip that she had come down with a nasty virus, he swore later that he caught it from her over the phone lines.
My Dad. He's a healthy guy. Except when he thinks he isn't.
I'm upstairs, dressed like Hugh Hefner, and writing on this thing. I'm watching a basketball game on a 13" TV. No HD. I'm glad I have two ears. That way I can tell you, without actually fibbing, that I'm listening to it in stereo.
My healthy Dad is downstairs on his--my--favorite soft leather chair. He sits in front of the largest TV in the house. The one with High Definition. The TV is on. The channel is set on a baseball game. His favorite team is getting their butts kicked.
The score is 17 to 1. That score related to football would be like 152 to 12. In basketball, it would like 139 to -15. In a divorce, it would be like your ex getting everything except for your underwear, and still complaining.
Now, if you noticed, I didn't say he was watching the game.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
Yes, he's sitting in my favorite chair...
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
...in front of the TV...
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
...the game is on...
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
...but...
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
...my Dad...
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
...is snoring.
...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The weather here has been a little warm. Maybe the wild fires have something to do with that, maybe they don't. I'm sure they don't help.
My Dad, when he's awake, always complains that my wife keeps the house too cold. My wife fixes this man three full meals a day, plus however many snacks he cares to eat, and he'll complain about how cold she keeps the house between bites of her made-with-love made-from-scratch delicious food. Then, when he's done eating, he'll complain that his room, which has it's own air conditioner, is too warm. To solve this problem, all he has to do is turn it on. But he doesn't. He prefers to complain about it. Complaining must give him purpose in life.
So my wife, being the saint that she is, will turn on his air conditioner for him. What I find especially humorous about this scenario, is my Dad, in his younger days, could take apart and put back together any piece of machinery you put in front of him. He could fix it, without having even seen it before or knowing what it was. The way Prince could play 21 different instruments by the time he was 19-years-old, is the way my Dad was with machines. Caesar Milan is The Dog Whisperer. My Dad is The Machine Whisperer. So turning a knob to the "on" setting is not beyond his capabilities.
I'm outside working in the yard. You can call me The Crab-Grass Whisperer. Yes, it's warm--almost hot, in fact--but I try to work in the shade as best I can. I hear my Dad's air conditioner working overtime. It sounds like this: "$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$!"
So, after working on the yard for several hours, I pretend I'm a member of Congress and take a break. I walk into the house...
...and WHO do I find asleep, snoring, and with the TV on in the great room?
No need to say more.
Raising My Father
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