Is It True? (Part Nine)
My Dad hasn't been his typical self since we got back from the family reunion. He sniffles, he snots, he clears out a lot of phlegm from his throat with a lot of fanfare.
It doesn't do much for my appetite.
Under the best of circumstances, I don't sit at the table to eat with him anymore and I haven't for several years. I've moved to the kitchen counter, that's where I now sit and eat. It started a while back when my Dad started sneezing and blowing his nose at the table, using the same dirty handkerchief I think he's had since he was stationed in the Philippines during World War Two, where it was so crusty and hard it saved his life by stopping a bullet shot from the gun of a Japanese soldier. I'm sure he must get new ones and throw the old ones in the hamper or the trash, but the thing is... I never see him do that.
Now, it's gotten worse. Sometimes I even have to eat up stairs. It's tough to keep a healthy appetite when someone in the same room is sneezing, blowing their nose, and now coughing. Coughing and choking and spitting out whatever he can into that dirty handkerchief.
I'm even losing weight from this loss of appetite. Now that I think about it, however, it sounds like a potential business opportunity. If a morbidly obese person wants to lose weight, say like Oprah or Rosie O'Donnell, they can hire my guaranteed weight-loss company. I'll just send my Dad over and he'll ruin their appetite with his loud noises and excretions. You can't gain weight from food you don't eat. I kid, of course, but it could work. Unfortunately, at my father's age, there are probably laws against that sort of thing, but to get back to my main point...
I feel sorry for my Dad, but feeling sorry doesn't help my loss of appetite.
My wife, bless her heart, understands.
"Damn that Nixon!"
It was all that and more.
It dazed me for a second, but I kept my balance.
I asked myself, "Am I dead? Did I just die and go to Hell?"
I checked the area for any zombies or leftover poops from my intestinally-impaired dog. I checked the bottom of my shoes and then I checked them again. I looked around to see if my ex-wife and her relatives were visiting. But I found nothing...
...until I noticed that the window to my father's bathroom was slightly open. I couldn't help but notice all the foliage around it had fainted. I thought to myself, "Is he dead?" But, even if he was, he couldn't have decomposed that quick.
Testing my conclusion, I walked away from my dad's open window, back toward the main house. The smell grew fainter the further away I walked. Then I cautiously moved back toward the open window, and--like a smelly punch to my olfactory senses--the stench hit me again.
In my delirium, I could swear I heard Howard Cosell yelling, "And he's down! He's down! Look at that little monkey run!"
I must have been out for the count, until--like Rocky--I got to my feet before the referee could reach 10. I wobbled away, still hearing Cosell yelling.
"Manos de piedra," he was saying. Hands of rock. "No mas! No mas!"
It was the worse smell ever.
There have been times when my wife and I have noticed my father fanning his bathroom with the door after he's done seeing a man about a horse. It's almost funny. He'll stand as far away as he can, extend his arm forward as far as he can, and fan the door back and forth, holding it by the knob. He'll do it for ten or fifteen minutes. Why he doesn't just leave his little house until the CDC can send in a Haz-Mat team, who knows?It doesn't do much for my appetite.
Under the best of circumstances, I don't sit at the table to eat with him anymore and I haven't for several years. I've moved to the kitchen counter, that's where I now sit and eat. It started a while back when my Dad started sneezing and blowing his nose at the table, using the same dirty handkerchief I think he's had since he was stationed in the Philippines during World War Two, where it was so crusty and hard it saved his life by stopping a bullet shot from the gun of a Japanese soldier. I'm sure he must get new ones and throw the old ones in the hamper or the trash, but the thing is... I never see him do that.
Now, it's gotten worse. Sometimes I even have to eat up stairs. It's tough to keep a healthy appetite when someone in the same room is sneezing, blowing their nose, and now coughing. Coughing and choking and spitting out whatever he can into that dirty handkerchief.
I'm even losing weight from this loss of appetite. Now that I think about it, however, it sounds like a potential business opportunity. If a morbidly obese person wants to lose weight, say like Oprah or Rosie O'Donnell, they can hire my guaranteed weight-loss company. I'll just send my Dad over and he'll ruin their appetite with his loud noises and excretions. You can't gain weight from food you don't eat. I kid, of course, but it could work. Unfortunately, at my father's age, there are probably laws against that sort of thing, but to get back to my main point...
I feel sorry for my Dad, but feeling sorry doesn't help my loss of appetite.
My wife, bless her heart, understands.
And the shenanigans from above his neck aren't the only disgusting things we have to contend with. Just this morning I was out in the yard drinking a hot cup of coffee and watering my yard. Yes, we have sprinklers on timers, but I enjoy watering the plants, drinking a hot cup of coffee, and breathing in the morning's fresh air. In other words, I water the yard because I want to, not because I have to. Plus, it's relaxing.
I was making my way close to my father's little in-law house in the front part of my property, when, all of a sudden, I inhaled the most disturbing, most pungent, most odorous smell imaginable. It must be what the people on The Walking Dead smell like, only deader and walkinger. It was a combination of decaying, gangrenous, burnt bodies mixed with sewer gases, skunk juice and stagnant water, topped off with vomit, diarrhea, and my brother-in-law's feet, which he swears he got from having served in Viet Nam."Damn that Nixon!"
It was all that and more.
It dazed me for a second, but I kept my balance.
I asked myself, "Am I dead? Did I just die and go to Hell?"
I checked the area for any zombies or leftover poops from my intestinally-impaired dog. I checked the bottom of my shoes and then I checked them again. I looked around to see if my ex-wife and her relatives were visiting. But I found nothing...
...until I noticed that the window to my father's bathroom was slightly open. I couldn't help but notice all the foliage around it had fainted. I thought to myself, "Is he dead?" But, even if he was, he couldn't have decomposed that quick.
Testing my conclusion, I walked away from my dad's open window, back toward the main house. The smell grew fainter the further away I walked. Then I cautiously moved back toward the open window, and--like a smelly punch to my olfactory senses--the stench hit me again.
In my delirium, I could swear I heard Howard Cosell yelling, "And he's down! He's down! Look at that little monkey run!"
I must have been out for the count, until--like Rocky--I got to my feet before the referee could reach 10. I wobbled away, still hearing Cosell yelling.
"Manos de piedra," he was saying. Hands of rock. "No mas! No mas!"
It was the worse smell ever.
What does this tell you? It tells me he can't even stand the smell of his own bodily functions.
Is this true? I can hear you ask. Can the stench of his father's bowel movements actually kill plants and cause time to warp?
Yes, my friend, it's true.
As true as the stories in your Bible.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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