After my Dad went off to search for the Lost Ark of the Covenant at his family reunion--and, unlike Indiana Jones, got lost--my wife thought it would be a good idea to buy him a Splash unit.
When I say she thought it would be a good idea, what I mean is I made the mistake of going for a long hike, and, while I was gone, that gave her enough time to go out and buy one without my permission. A Splash unit, I mean.
What's that? you ask.
Well, it's an expensive little doo-dad with an emergency button that, when pressed, is answered by highly trained emergency certified personnel who all probably make minimum wage. When you advertise that your personnel is highly trained that usually means they're poorly paid.
When the button is pressed, whoever answers has a list of phone numbers they're supposed to call. Mine, my wife's... the Pope's. The unit even has a GPS tracker that will pin-point my father's whereabouts the way those white supremacists were able to pin-point Walter White's buried drug fortune toward the end of Breaking Bad.
Even before the reunion, my wife and I have been worried that if he was to fall, even in his room, he would not be able to call for help. On his walks, if he was to take a left turn instead of a right, he might get so turned around that he could end up at your front door.
No, really. I'm talking about your front door. (And, speaking of you, you should make your kids and loved ones carry one. You know the drill. Do as I say, not as I blah, blah, blah.)
With this unit, all he has to do is push the button and they'll be able to pinpoint him. After they pinpoint him, they can call us or they can call 911, or they can do any variation of the two. In case he gets confused and walks into the ocean or accidentally drops it into the toilet, it's waterproof. It even has an app that lets me check on my computer for his whereabouts. Unfortunately, one thing it won't let me check is his bank account, so I can take a look at how my inheritance is doing.
I asked my wife, "Why do we need it?"
She didn't answer. She just gave me "the look."
"Don't you love your father?" she asked, finally.
"What does love have to do with it?" I ask her back. Coincidentally, that's the same line I used after I asked her to marry me.
Of course, my father was of the opinion that he was above carrying such a tiny nuisance.
"Blah, blah, blah," he said.
"Blah, blah, blah?" he wanted to know.
And, as if we were dealing with a child who's gotten big enough to forget he's still small, we had to come up with answers that made him feel like he was the one making all the decisions.
My wife told him that the doctor recommended it. She told him that the doctor prescribed it. She told him that the doctor even had one himself.
She said it had nothing to do with his mental faculties or his physical capabilities. It was for the slim chance there was ever an emergency. If he had one or came across one, he would have a way of calling for help.
"I can call for help," he informed my wife, and then proceeded to show her. "Help! Help!"
"Dad, you know that's not what I mean," she said.
"I don't need it," my Dad told her.When I say she thought it would be a good idea, what I mean is I made the mistake of going for a long hike, and, while I was gone, that gave her enough time to go out and buy one without my permission. A Splash unit, I mean.
What's that? you ask.
Well, it's an expensive little doo-dad with an emergency button that, when pressed, is answered by highly trained emergency certified personnel who all probably make minimum wage. When you advertise that your personnel is highly trained that usually means they're poorly paid.
When the button is pressed, whoever answers has a list of phone numbers they're supposed to call. Mine, my wife's... the Pope's. The unit even has a GPS tracker that will pin-point my father's whereabouts the way those white supremacists were able to pin-point Walter White's buried drug fortune toward the end of Breaking Bad.
Even before the reunion, my wife and I have been worried that if he was to fall, even in his room, he would not be able to call for help. On his walks, if he was to take a left turn instead of a right, he might get so turned around that he could end up at your front door.
No, really. I'm talking about your front door. (And, speaking of you, you should make your kids and loved ones carry one. You know the drill. Do as I say, not as I blah, blah, blah.)
With this unit, all he has to do is push the button and they'll be able to pinpoint him. After they pinpoint him, they can call us or they can call 911, or they can do any variation of the two. In case he gets confused and walks into the ocean or accidentally drops it into the toilet, it's waterproof. It even has an app that lets me check on my computer for his whereabouts. Unfortunately, one thing it won't let me check is his bank account, so I can take a look at how my inheritance is doing.
I asked my wife, "Why do we need it?"
She didn't answer. She just gave me "the look."
"Don't you love your father?" she asked, finally.
"What does love have to do with it?" I ask her back. Coincidentally, that's the same line I used after I asked her to marry me.
Of course, my father was of the opinion that he was above carrying such a tiny nuisance.
"Blah, blah, blah," he said.
"Blah, blah, blah?" he wanted to know.
And, as if we were dealing with a child who's gotten big enough to forget he's still small, we had to come up with answers that made him feel like he was the one making all the decisions.
My wife told him that the doctor recommended it. She told him that the doctor prescribed it. She told him that the doctor even had one himself.
She said it had nothing to do with his mental faculties or his physical capabilities. It was for the slim chance there was ever an emergency. If he had one or came across one, he would have a way of calling for help.
"I can call for help," he informed my wife, and then proceeded to show her. "Help! Help!"
"Dad, you know that's not what I mean," she said.
"It's only in case of an emergency," she told him back.
"I don't want it," he insisted.
"But what if you saw a little boy get hurt?" she insisted back.
"That's his problem. I'm not interested in carrying that thing around," he was determined.
"You should be," she was just as determined.
And then she said those four magic words that made everything all right.
"We're paying for it," she said, nodding her head in my direction, indicating her and me. Mainly me.
My Dad looked at her.
My Dad looked at me.
And then he looked at her.
And then he looked at me.
When he looked at her, I'm sure he probably was thinking, "My daughter-in-law... she's always looking out for me."
When he looked at me, I know he was thinking, "My son... I always like sticking it to him."
"Well, if the doctor says so," he said, shrugging his shoulders and finally agreeing. His wallet safely sleeping in his back pocket.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
No comments:
Post a Comment