Like AA, Only Different

The thing about getting older is that you find yourself going to the doctor more often. Blood tests, mammograms if you’re female, colonoscopies.
     Can’t I just take a pill?
     The thing I hate most is referrals. Whatever little complaint I might mention, my doctor is quick to refer me to ANOTHER doctor.
     Heck, even I can do that!
     Now that I think about it, when I was starting out in the business world, I should have legally changed my first name to “Doctor.” That way, I could have just rented out an office and made my living referring patients to real doctors.
    You know, the ones who didn’t have the intelligence to avoid medical school.
     Well, the good news is I’m in good health, but my bad cholesterol levels are high, so, in addition to losing weight, I have to change my diet. More fish, less fried foods, cut out sugar and fast food. You know, the things that make life worth living.
     I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs, so I consider this God’s cruel joke.
     “What did the doctor say?” my father asked me when I walked back into the waiting area where he was waiting for me.
     It’s funny, but we spent my growing up years avoiding each other. My father was of the Children-Should-Be-Seen-Not-Heard generation. Me? I saw enough police procedurals on TV to know not to incriminate myself.
     Having said all that, the funny part I’m referring to (See? I AM good at referrals.) is that we now spend a lot of our time together. I take him to HIS doctor appointments, and he comes with me to mine. We have lunch afterward, or at least we try to have lunch together. After my father vetoes every one of my suggestions, sometimes the only suggestion left is to go home.
     “I have to go on a diet,” I told him. “My cholesterol’s too high.”
     My father snorted in disgust, enthusiastically rubbing his nose in contempt. He’s familiar with such nonsense. Fortunately, my lovely wife is an excellent cook and can accommodate our culinary requirements, AND make it taste delicious as well.
     “I guess we can be diet buddies,” I continued. “You can be my sponsor, like in AA. Whenever I’m in the mood to go out for some fried chicken, I’ll give you a call.”
     “That’s right,” he agreed. “And I’ll go with you.”
 
 

Raising My Father

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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

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I Wish I Hadn't Heard That

When kids ride in the back seat of a car with their friends, they forget a parent is sitting behind the wheel listening to everything they say.
     I was taking my daughter and her friend to school one day when I overheard the friend say she had walked in on her parents in the middle of doing, well, um... you know. The thing that horrified her the most was seeing that her father was wearing his CPAP mask.
     “It was like watching Darth Vader having sex,” she said.
 
 

Raising My Father
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Ordering Enchiladas

It's funny about the restaurant I used to buy my mother’s gourmet enchiladas at.
     What am I talking about?
     I'm talking about back when my beloved mother was still alive, I used to go over every Saturday morning for breakfast. When my schedule at work changed, so did the time I was able to go over and visit. It became lunch, and, I'm not quit sure how, but the routine also changed from my going over there to eat, to my going over there to take her lunch. I always asked her in advance what she would like, but her order never changed.
     What about your father?
     You sure do ask a lot of questions, my friend.
     Well, my father preferred home-cooked meals, so my mother would still have to fix him something to eat. I think he would have preferred the enchiladas I was bringing over, but to him it was a matter of pride.
     The reason I tell you all this is because I was remembering the lady who, week after week, would take my order every Saturday afternoon. She was an older lady with a bad case of arthritis in one hand. Why she was working as the cashier, I don't know. I always thought she might have been the owner of the restaurant, but she could have been a former waitress whose waitressing days were long behind her.
     "Welcome to La Chancla," she would greet me. "You can seat yourself."
     I was only there EVERY Saturday, rain or shine (just like the post office), and she would treat me as if I had never been there before.
     "Maybe she's one of your old high school girlfriends," my older and less attractive brother once told me. "Assuming you had any."
     Well, I had plenty. Girlfriends, I mean, and she wasn't one of them. Believe me, if she had been one of my old girlfriends, she would have certainly remembered me. In fact, I would have probably gotten my food for free.
     There was a separate To Go section of the cashier’s station, and that's where I would stand, just under their "Order Here" sign. Why she would always assume I wanted a sit-down meal, I don't know.
     "No, thank you," I would politely tell her. "I'm here to order out."
     If there was already an order there that had previously been called in, she’d ask me, “Did you order the burritos?” Or, “Here are your chile rellenos.”
     "Those aren't mine," I would tell her.
     "Are you sure?" she would respond.
     Of course I was sure.
     You see, I never ever called in and only ordered the red chile enchilada plate with extra onions EVERY time I went there. Remember how I just wrote “with extra onions”?
     “Did you want onions with that?” she’d always want to know.
     "Extra onions," I'd repeat.
     My mother didn’t care for their salad, so I’d also tell the lady, “No salad, please.”
     “No salad?” she’d say, like not wanting shredded lettuce with your meal was beyond her comprehension.
     “That's right.”
     “You don’t want any salad.”
     “No salad.”
     Sometimes, when I was feeling especially frustrated, I’d point out, “I’m only in here EVERY week,” but, mostly, I kept my temper, because the ladies were nice and the food was good and I didn’t want them--thinking the  enchilada plate was for me--to do anything to my mother’s food.
     Sometimes, after I gave her my order, she’d incorrectly clarify, “CHICKEN enchiladas?”
     “No,” I’d correct her. “Cheese.”
     Once, this waitress who was especially nice to me, saw the lady write down "chicken enchiladas" on her ordering pad, and, knowing it was me, double-checked, “Did you want cheese or chicken?”
     “I ordered cheese.”
     And the nice waitress made sure I got my usual.
     Now that I think about it, I should have given her a tip.
     Too bad I'm cheap.
     (I jest, of course.)
     I write all this, because I was thinking about the time the older lady handed me my order and said, “Here’s your green enchiladas.”
     Green enchiladas?
     I checked, and they were red, so all was good.
     Except for the salad it came with.
 
 

Raising My Father

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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

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