My father is most decidedly NOT a Klingon, and he would never embrace that philosophy. On the contrary, my father, a Cuban and thus of a heartier stock than Klingons, will brave the backbreaking sugar cane fields to make sugar, and that most Cuban of spirits, rum, and gather some mint leaves to make a mojito before complaining that there was too much work in the fields.
In short, my father is the kind of guy that looks Adversity in the eye, and gives him the finger. He doesn't just take lemons and make lemonade, he makes a Tom Collins, gives a round to everyone, and leads the crowd in a Bronx cheer.
That's why it was so startling to hear his puny voice this weekend, obviously drugged and still in some pain from a bad turn from his surgery last week. For starters, he was having some issues urinating (teehee, how sophomoric to say that) so they gave him a catheter. Lovely. I still feel like I had too much information, and yet here I am broadcasting it. Anyway, like a dutiful Mommy, my mother gave me daily reports that he had made pee-pee at the end of the week, and they had removed the offending appendage from his....um, appendage. TMI again, sorry.
All was well, and then he was hospitalized sudddenly from a great pain. It turns out that he had a clot in one of his legs that caused a pulmonary embolism. If those words sound frightening, imagine the phone call I got from my mother. Agitation and fears ruled, and his puny breathless voice was no comfort, but finally, today, we had a lovely conversation, where he recounted at length and with great detail, his adventures in the hospital.
The Old Man is connected to all kinds of wires. One is an IV filled with blood thinners, another is some wiring that he claims is a satellite signal on his condition (OK, sure, whatever) and finally, his little friend returned to aggravate his little "friend." HA! Do you know how I know he is feeling better? He has named the catheter the Pingo'metro. Vaya, how crass is that?
He has gleefully stashed a digital camera in the room because he wants to take a picture of Josie the Bigmouth, a large nurse from the islands who performs miracles bathing him in bed while he is hooked up to all the tubes and such. Clearly, Pop has too much time on his hands if he is fascinated by a sponge bath. He called it magical. I would call it annoying, uncomfortable, embarrassing, unnnecessary. You get the picture.
This morning he put in a request to have Josie give him another bath. He said it was "very refreshing."
I think the hospital staff better release him soon. He is starting to entertain himself with the system, and that's not going to be pretty.
Note the Chesire cat grin. He's up to something already.
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