First... Do No Harm

I regret making fun of my father in the last story because God punished me for it.

     This morning I went outside to pick up after my dog, when I was attacked--ATTACKED, I tell you--by a tiny moth. I didn't even notice it until it flew right into my ear. My left one. It didn't even give me a chance to swat it away by buzzing around annoyingly first. No, it was like one of those Smart Missiles that locates and then heads straight for its target.

     One moment my ear was blissfully empty, and the next it had a moth in it. I didn't see it or feel it flying around, but I felt it go in my ear, so I did what anybody else would have done, I immediately used my finger to get it out. Unfortunately, I probably wedged it even further inside. The fortunate thing is that, even though it was small enough to fit in my ear, it was too big to go all the way down. With the exception of bumble bees, nothing that flies is able to fly backward. If it had been smaller, it could have gone all the way down to my eardrum, and who knows what kind of damage it could have done.

     You see, that was my big worry. Losing my hearing. Even if I only lost it out of one ear. So I went over to the boss--my wife--and told her what happened.
     "I have to go to the ER," I told her, and she said, "Go."
     She couldn't go with me because she had to stay behind to feed my Dad. This is a guy who saved the world from the Japanese in World War Two, but at the age of 95 he's become helpless in the kitchen. I pray nothing ever happens to my wife and I when we're out by ourselves some time, because they'd find a 95-year-old skeleton sitting at my kitchen table waiting to be served dinner.
     I should have also told my wife not to tell my father what happened, because the last thing I wanted (besides losing my hearing) is becoming known as My Son With The Moth In His Ear.

     At the ER there was only one lady with two kids sitting in the waiting area. I thought to myself, "This should be quick."
     They didn't call me in until an hour later.
     Other people eventually showed up, and we all just sat there. With me, they probably figured, "He's just got a moth in his ear. He can wait." I tried to stress how worried I was that the moth would rupture my eardrum, I even told them that I could feel it pressing up against something, but, while I'm sure that they're all good people, they weren't in any rush to treat any of us.
     You would think they would have a faster response time, especially since the place could fill up. If you take care of people as they come in and get them out as soon as possible, then you don't end up with a waiting room with a backlog of people.

     But that's just me.
     The only time they hurried was when they herded me over to see the guy who wanted to know how I was going to pay for the whole affair.

     The nurse that initially helped me was a guy from Africa. Don't take this the wrong way, but he had that starving-African look and a pretty thick accent, but was a friendly guy just the same. I know there are a lot of people out there who are going to call me a racist for saying things the way they were (and I would call those people "white liberals"), but when did saying the truth become an act of racism? If he told somebody about the crazy guy with the bug in his ear, I wouldn't think he was performing an act of medicism or anything. Anyway...
     He came out into the waiting area, got three of us, and then took us to our rooms. When he walked back in a few seconds later he had my chart and asked me, "What's the problem?"

     I told him, "Something flew in my ear."

     "SOMETHING FLEW IN YOUR EAR?" he said, shocked.

     "Yes," I told him again, trying to stay calm so that he would stay calm. "Something flew in my ear."

     That's what I told him. What I thought was, "Hey, buddy, YOU have my chart in your hands. Why don't you READ it?"

     He decided to take it out by filling my ear with some kind of liquid. I forget what it's called. It began with an "L" if that helps any.

     "That will get the bug out," he assured me.

     "I don't think it's a bug," I told him, "because it FLEW in. I think it's a moth. Moths only fly in one direction--forward--so I don't know if it'll come out."

     "Don't worry," he assured me, "it always works. We do it all the time. That bug will come right out. One time we had to do it to a little boy who had a cockroach in his ear, and the cockroach came right out."

     I wasn't so sure.

     "I thought you'd probably use tweezers to pull it out," I said, but was really making a suggestion.

     "We might push it further inside," he explained, and I couldn't argue with the logic. So he put the liquid that began with an "L" in my ear, and told me he'd be back in a few minutes. He came back and asked if the bug was still in my ear.

     "Yes," I told him.

     He left and after awhile a doctor came and put MORE of that liquid in my ear.
     "We need to drown it and then the bug will come out," he told me.
     "I don't think it's a bug," I said, telling him the exact same thing I told the nurse, "because it FLEW in. I think it's a moth. Moths only fly in one direction--forward--so I don't know if it'll come out."

     I wasn't so sure about that liquid doing any good, because I was a little boy once, and as a little boy I tried to drown a few bugs in my time, and--take my word for it--they take A LONG time to drown. Another part of me was worried that the liquid was going to make my ear canal so slick that the moth would be able to squeeze its way even further down my ear canal and try to force its way through my eardrum.

     I guess the doctor realized that the moth wasn't going to drown any time soon, so he decided to use suction to get it out. And get it out he did. Piece by piece. One time he came a little too close to my hearing apparatus, and that was kind of painful, but fortunately he didn't suck anything out except the liquid that begins with an "L".
     And the moth.

     "Was it a moth?" I asked, wanting to hear him say it.

     "It looked like one," he told me, not quite saying yes, but not quite saying no.

     Well... what can I say?
     I went there because I needed a doctor, not an expert on flying insects.

     All's well that ends well, I suppose.

     The doctor prescribed some eardrops for me, because I jerked when I felt that pain and the suction-tube he was using gave me a little abrasion inside my ear, or, to use the doctor's medical terminology, it "screwed up your ear, dude."
     He didn't really say that.
     But I know that's what he meant.

    
    

Raising My Father

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Blazing Nostrils

There's a joke by a very funny and very dead comedian, Henny Youngman. He was known as the king of the one-liners. It goes (and I'm paraphrasing here):

 

     "I went to the doctor the other day. I told him, 'Doc, it hurts when I do this.' He said, 'Then don't do that.'"

 
     Did I ever tell you that several years back, I was having dizzy spells? Every time I stood up, if I got up too fast, my head would spin and I'd have to sit back down until I got my sea-legs again.
     So I went to my General Practitioner. My family doctor, in other words. He's a good doctor. He's took the Hippocratic Oath and everything. Anyway...
     At the office, I tell him, "Doc, I'm having dizzy spells. Every time I get up, I have to sit back down, because my head starts spinning. I don't know what's wrong."
     So the doctor does what doctors do. He hems and haws, adjusts his glasses, and looks over my file. Then, without asking any questions or missing a beat, he tells me, "Well, don't get up so fast."
     Since I had his attention, I thought I'd ask him another question.
     "Doc, is petroleum jelly flammable?"
     "As a matter of fact, yes, petroleum jelly is flammable," he informed me, "but only when it's heated to a liquid. When it's heated to a liquid, the fumes will catch fire, but not the liquid itself. However, a wick material--like leaves, bark, or small twigs--is needed to ignite the petroleum jelly. And don't call me 'doc'."
     Who knew he'd know so much about petroleum jelly?

     The reason I asked him that was because years ago when my Mom was still alive, she once told me that my Dad's nose used to dry up. Dad, being the medical man that he wasn't, would treat the dryness with Vaseline.
     I don't know why she felt the need to tell me all that, especially while I was eating breakfast, but I just filed it away with all the other odd information she was fond of passing on. Like if you go outside with your hair wet you'll catch a cold and die or if you eat a watermelon seed it will sprout inside your stomach or if you look at a dog go to the bathroom you'll get a sty in your eye. As a kid, I didn't even know what a sty was, so I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
     One day soon after, I'm talking with my Mom and she tells me that she is worried about my father.
     "Worried about what, Mom?"
      My mother tells me she's afraid my father's nose will catch on fire.
     What?

     "His nose will catch on fire?" I ask, wanting to make sure I heard what I heard.
     I also laughed, but to myself.

     She explains to me that my father--her husband--has a jar of Vaseline next to his bed.
     "And?" I ask.
     And he uses it for his nose. When my father's nostrils dry up, you see, he'll put some Vaseline up and all around his nose.
     "What's wrong with that?" I ask her. "I mean, if it keeps his nose, um, moisturized."

     What's wrong with that, she tells me, is that my father's nose could catch on fire.
     What?
     "Vaseline is petroleum jelly," she tells me like I'm an idiot, "and petroleum jelly is made from petroleum. You know, they make gasoline out of petroleum, so I'm afraid that if Dad gets too close to a flame, his nose will catch on fire and he will burn up. Then the container next to the bed could catch on fire and I'd burn up, too. I was told to put the jar in a safe place. and to keep dad away from any open flames."
     "Who told you that?"
     "Somebody."

     Hmmm... I'm thinking to myself... could that somebody have been Smokey Bear?
     I look at my mother. Could she be smoking something one of my younger brothers might have given her for Christmas? Should I have her checked out to make sure she isn't a danger to herself or to my father?

     I asked my mother, "Somebody who?"

     "Well," my Mom said, not really wanting to drop a dime on anyone, "your brother is the one that told me."
     "Which one?"
     "The middle one. He's worried about dad having the Vaseline in his nose and next to the bed. He's afraid that Dad's nose might catch on fire if he gets too close to a flame. Then, with his nose on fire, the jar would catch on fire and spread onto the bed. I would die in that fire!"

     What?
     "Are there any flames near your bed?" I asked her.
     "No," she said.

     I pretty much left it at that.
     I knew it was a subject way over my ability to explain to her that her middle son, who has no medical degree of any kind, was full of crap. I just told her that since Dad doesn't smoke any more and since he doesn't have the habit of holding lit matches up to his nose, everyone, including my younger brother, should be safe.
     I think she slept well for the first time in a long time that night.
 
 

Raising My Father

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@JimDuchene

 

Eating Interrupted

Once upon a time, oh, say, three nights ago, my wife had made some menudo for Halloween Eve. Menudo is a Mexican stew made with hominy and tripe.
     What?
     You don't know what tripe is?
     Trust me, you don't want to know.
     My wife? She's a pretty smart lady. Menudo is exactly the right thing to eat on a cold, cold night when you're busy handing out candies for Halloween. And if you spill the red broth on your shirt, you can even tell the innocent young trick-or-treaters it's blood.
     Hang on a second... did I say "we"?
    I meant "me".
     Somehow, when it comes to getting off the couch to hand out the treats, my legs seem to be the only ones that work. But I don't mind. I've lost a lot of things when my Dad moved in with us. The use of the TV in the great room. The use of my favorite chair in the great room. The use of oxygen when my Dad leans to the side. I tell my wife to quit serving him the usual suspects of the gas-producing vegetable world, but she insists he needs the fiber.
     My Dad, he usually has his nose in everything. If I accidentally leave my mail within reach, he'll go through it like he works for the government. All except for my bills, however. I leave my bills out on purpose, but those he wants to remain ignorant about. And every morning, even when the weather's bad, despite our pleading and good sense, he'll insist on going on his walk, but any time the doorbell rings he'll stay sitting right where he's at and inform me, "There's someone at the door."
     The one thing I didn't lose, however, was my role as the primary candy-giver-outer on Halloween, and, to tell the truth, I love giving out candy for Halloween. I loved getting candy when I trick-or-treated when I was a kid, and I like thinking I'm adding to this generation's future fond memories of the ghoulish holiday. Also, I like the leftover candies.
     But getting back to the menudo... man, was I HUNGRY. When I finally served myself a bowl, I sprinkled some oregano on it and started spooning it down. On the second spoonful, a little oregano twig got stuck in my throat, kind of like a tiny splinter. I swallowed and swallowed, but it was stuck good.
     My wife was busy spooning down some menudo of her own and she saw me in distress. She asked me what was wrong. I told her I had an oregano twig stuck in my throat from the menudo. It felt like it was stuck at an angle, so I was afraid to swallow anything else, because I didn't want a big old piece of tripe to get caught on the twig and choke me.
     My Dad was also there, sitting by us and eating his own bowl. He heard my sad story and told me, "Why don't you eat a banana? That will make the twig go down."
     I tried to be polite, but I know I probably made an are-you-stupid-or-what? face. My wife even sat there looking at him because of his suggestion. I'm sure he must have given me that advice with the best of intentions, but why would I take the chance of swallowing anything and choking? If something's going to get stuck, it's going to get stuck. It doesn't matter if it's a piece of tripe or a piece of a banana, the twig doesn't care or know the difference.
     Now, don't get me wrong, I knew the chances of actually choking because an oregano twig was stuck in my throat were pretty slim. It was a twig, after all. And tiny But why did I want to take a chance?
     I don't remember how I answered him, as I was still worrying over my dilemma, but I'm sure part of my response was that I wasn't going to eat a banana because I didn't want to die.
     After that, he didn't make any other suggestions that could potentially kill me.
     My wife, in sympathy, stopped eating. My Dad, on the other hand, quickly forgot my rudeness and continued to eagerly chow down.
     "This is really good!" he said between enthusiastic spoonfuls.
     When he's eating, he'd be unaware of the world if it was ending.
     Meanwhile, my wife just looked at me with pity in her eyes and said, "Aw, and you were really enjoying that menudo."

 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

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