The Cure

“Gramps is not allowed in our house.”

This might sound like a rather harsh statement for my six-year old daughter to say, but she was not backing down. The “spot” on my lung turned out to be a spot on my rib. Apparently I'd broken it sometime in my past. Since I am well into middle-age now, (Going from “young and healthy” to “over forty and we need to run some tests” in one doctor's appointment ages you quickly.) I can't be expected to remember when this happened, but it probably had something to do with helping the insurgents cross war-torn Afghanistan. However, with age comes responsibility, so I followed up with my doctor who confirmed that there was nothing overly wrong with my lung. He also found why my shoulder and neck were “twitchy”.

The problem could be fixed with a local and 20 minutes under the knife. (In this case, knife meant “a chisel and hammer”. And local meant “you won't feel any pain, but you will feel everything else.”) So, an appointment was made for the next Saturday. There was just one problem... My daughter.

My daughter has a very deep and painful caring streak. Her view of of medicine is, “more is better”. (if she does become the doctor she is threatening, the pharmaceutical companies are going to LOVE her.) If one bandade would do the job, then my daughter will make sure that ten cover whatever real or imagined scratch you have. I've seen her dolls after a day of play and there is nothing sadder than seeing a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog released from intensive care and only a few small patches of red showing through all the medical dressings.

“What happened to Clifford.”

“He got a scratch.”

“All those bandages for a scratch?” I shake my head.

“It was a bad one.” Then her medical attention would turn to me... “Daddy, you need a shot.”

So, I was torn, I could have the pain quickly and easily (Yeah, I took that with a grain of salt. Remember this the same profession that categorized explosive diarrhea as a “mild” side effect.) removed and then go home to the tender care of my daughter... Or I could live with the pain for the rest of my life, or until my daughter turned eighteen. In the end, my wife convinced me to have the “procedure”.

My daughter, in her most medically sincere voice, told me she would take care of me. (This was right after she jumped on shoulder. Apparently the tears were enough for her to ask if that was my bad shoulder...) That's when I had a brainstorm (or a stroke).

“I hope you do a better job than Mommy and Gramps did last time.” (This got her competitive streak up.)

“What did Gramps do?” There was a hint of disappointed suspicion in her voice.

“Well, last time, Gramps and Mommy were taking care of me. I couldn't bend my knees and I had socks on. Well, you know how slippery the floor in the kitchen is?”

“Oh yes!” She jumped off my lap, using my shoulder for leverage, and proceeded to demonstrate how well she can slide.

Once the tears cleared, she was back in my lap for the rest of the story. “Well, I had to go to the bathroom, and Mommy and Gramps wanted to help me get up. Except, my feet slipped on the floor and they dropped me!” (Well, drop may be a bit of an exaggeration... It was more, my socks started to slip on the hardwood floor, and rather than react in a medically safe and prudent manner, both let go. The icing on the cake was when my wife started to laugh and then my dad followed suit.)

One of the coolest things about children is their frame of reference. They haven't become inured to things yet.

My daughter listened to the story, then stood up, her tiny fists on her hips. “That Gramps! He dropped you! I'm not letting him anywhere near you.”

“But, he's going to want to get ice for my shoulder,” I warned her.

“I'll get your ice!”

“But what if he wants to see how I'm doing?”

“I'll keep him away from you, daddy.”

Mission accomplished.

Now, you might be wondering, how could I sell out my dad so easily? Well, the story I told my daughter is true. Both my wife and my dad defended their actions by saying they'd been up hours and were exhausted. I can see how sitting and drinking coffee while I had my kneecap removed and re-adjusted and bones chopped out of my knees can be an exhausting experience. Now, I only have a week to figure out how to keep my loving, caring and supportive wife as far away as possible. I'm going to check out the finer points of restraining orders...