He's Sick, Not Dead

My Dad's younger brother had been doing poorly for a while now, so, when he ended up in the hospital, I offered to take my father to go see him.
     "What for?" my father groused. "He's sick, not dead."
     "He's not doing well, pop," I told him.
     You think he's not doing well," my father said. "What about me? I haven't been able to go to the bathroom for a week."
     Too bad my dad's not lactose intolerant like I am. A glass of milk would solve his problem pronto. Anyway...
     My father finally relented when my wife interceded and told him he should go. She's like a good angel sitting on his shoulder, convincing him to be a better person. Myself, my father would probably tell you that I have a devil on one shoulder and an even bigger devil on the other.
     "You never know," my wife wisely concluded.
     "All I know is my laxative's not working," my Dad complained.
     At the hospital, my uncle greeted us warmly, if weakly. He looked happy to see us, but he looked frail. There was a plate of uneaten food near him.
     "How are you feeling?" my father asked him, concern in his voice.
     "Not too good," his baby brother admitted, lifting a weak hand.
     "You think you don't feel good," my father told him, "I haven't been able to go to the bathroom for a week."
     "At least I don't have that problem," my uncle bragged, perking up. "I'm regular, like clockwork. Every morning, at exactly 8am, I empty my bowels."
     "Yeah," my father told him, "but you don't get out of bed until 10."
 
 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene
as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine