There's two things my Dad does more now than he did when he was younger. One of them is go to the doctor, and when he goes to the doctor, I go with him, because he only hears about every other word, and those missing words get him into trouble. The last time he saw the doctor by himself, my wife and I were waiting for him in the room where old magazines go to die. He came back white as a ghost, visibly shaken.
"What's wrong, Dad?" my wife asked him, both of us concerned.
"The doctor said I only have a year to live," he told us, his eyes bugging out like Roger Rabbit's.
"Oh, my God," my wife said.
Me, I asked to see the doctor. Fortunately, the doctor is a pretty nice guy, so he charged me a discounted rate to consult with him.
"Doc," I said, "my father said you told him he only has a year to live."
"What?" the doctor said, just as surprised as we were. "He must have misunderstood me. What I told him was, he's so healthy he doesn't have to see me for another year."
Needless to say, it's been my job to go with him to his doctor appointments ever since.
Unfortunately, on our last visit, I had to excuse myself for a minute because I had to go "see a man about a horse," if you get my drift. When I returned, my Dad was walking back into the waiting area.
"That was quick," I observed.
"Yeah, well," my Dad answered.
"What did the doctor say?" I asked.
"He said I had to start killing people."
"What the fudge?" I thought, only I wasn't thinking "fudge."
"He said you had to start killing people?"
"Yeah, but not in those exact words," my father explained. "He told me to get rid of the stress in my life. Same difference."
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
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as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
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