“Few things help an individual more than to place responsibility upon him, and to let him know that you trust him.”
–Booker T. Washington
It took the better part of 38 years, but I’m happy to report that I am no longer the ugly duckling of my family when it comes to taking care of the serious stuff. I’ve shed many layers of delinquent skin and the metamorphosis is complete.
My 73-year-old father had knee replacement surgery on Friday morning, with me playing the role of Waiting Closest Relative (I’m a natural for this part, since I’ve played similar roles many times over the years. You may have heard rave reviews of my performance in “Mom’s Brain Surgery.” It was a more challenging role, as you can well-imagine. I also was nominated for a Scalpie Award for my high-octane role in Pulmonary Embolism—The Emergency. More on this later.).
I feared the surgery date for two specific reasons: my father has very low tolerance for pain and very strong opinions about paid parking. Both of these variables would come into play over the weekend.
The surgery went off without a hitch, but recovery had a few hiccups.
The old man fell on his way to the bathroom the day after his surgery. Thankfully, no damage done, although it did set back his rehab exercise schedule by a day.
However, recovery from major surgery involves sharp objects stuck into veins and my dad whimpers like a frightened puppy at the mere sight of a syringe. It’s so bad the nurses have taken to infantilizing the process: “Ready for your date with Mr. Stretchie?”, referring to the rubber tourniquet .
This is the same guy who used to take vulcanized rubber fired at his mask-less face as a hockey goalie in the 50s, so obviously it’s not about the pain. Maybe he had a traumatic childhood event with a babysitter who wore lots of pins in her hat. Whatever the source of the irrational anxiety, it makes things challenging for everyone who has to endure his needle resistance.
The needle resistance is nothing compared to the paid parking resistance. In advance of my visit with my dad in the hospital on Saturday, I had to create an elaborate ruse with my son and wife about how we parked at a nearby coffee shop and had to walk 15 minutes to get to the hospital (“Whew! That was some hike there, RIGHT guys?!”).
It brought back memories of my dad taking me to see Blue Jay games at old Exhibition Stadium. He would park behind a pork-rendering plant in the warehouse district, leaving us a half hour walk to the stadium. It’s no surprise that I slept through the first three innings of every game.
What is it about old guys and paid parking? I mean, I loathe paying $20 for a few hours of time at the hospital, but I accept it as the cost of convenience of living in a city that is equipped with the expertise and facilities to install new joints in human beings.
Not my dad. Two years back, he had a pulmonary embolism, a potentially life-threatening condition. He drove himself to the hospital emergency room and rather than simply pay the parking cost, he parked a few blocks away on a suburban side street. On a steep hill. On a freezing February night. He then gasped his way to the hospital.
By the time I met him at the emergency room, he was literally blue from oxygen deprivation. But score one for the old man for saving a fiver! (It’s also great fodder for a funeral speech: “Here lies a man, a proud man, a frugal man. He would probably not be lying here had he splurged for the on-site hospital parking.”)
There was one pleasant and unexpected surprise I learned from my dad throughout this: he really loosens up with the administration of opiates. For a teetotaling, non-smoking conservative, it was astounding to hear my dad speak of writing and performing in a satirical send-up of Julius Caesar in high school (“Big Jules” it was named). Up until this moment, the closest I had placed my dad to the arts scene was winning a “Name that Tune” contest at a lodge during a summer trip to cottage country.
It has since dawned on me that I’m actually caring for my dad in a fundamental way, hence the responsibility wake-up call. It’s a strange feeling.
As I waited for my dad to get out of post-op recovery, the nurse called out:
“Who here is responsible for Mr. Hughes?”
I looked around me for my dad, before I realized the nurse was looking for me.
Me. Responsible. Weird.