Phone Calls From My Dad
Last Sunday night I got home from running around to find a message on my answering machine from my dad. He had called to say that he had just had minor surgery on his hand--something to do with having a nail driven into it--but that he was ok and he'd try to get ahold of me later. I was, of course, concerned to hear that he was hurt but I wasn't worried. Having a nail driven into your hand would be painful as all get out, but he'd gone for medical care and it would be ok now.
This morning around quarter to seven the phone rings, and it's my dad. "Good mornin' darlin'" he said. "Dad!" I said, "how's your hand?" "How did you know I'd done something to my hand?" he said. "You told me," I said. "I did?" he said. Then I got worried.
After a little more conversation we worked out that he called after getting out of surgery and he didn't remember leaving the message on my machine. So that was ok. Then the details of why he had been in surgery came out. He hadn't had gotten medical attention after the injury--he'd gone on working. And during that day and the next the hand had gotten red and swollen and red streaks started appearing up and down his arm. So on Sunday a friend of his who was an anesthesiologist was visiting, and she said, "You are going to the hospital. Now." At the hospital the doctor looked at it and said, "You are going into surgery. Now."
At this point I was a little upset with my dad, who is 64 and has Type II Diabetes and ought to know by now that when his hand started swelling up it was a bad sign, so when he said something about being unhappy over missing a week of work I pointed out that maybe the next time he drove a nail into his hand he should see the doctor right away. "Well," he said, "the problem was that I had abused it a little that day. The nail hole sealed up right away, but then I moved 160 pounds of rock for a wall I was building. And then I accidentally hammered it twice." I probably would have put my head in my hands and wept, except that I was too busy rolling my eyes. I need to convince him to get first aid training. Or find him My First Book of Microbiology, so that he'll know what having red streaks up and down your arm means. He's not a stupid person, he's just strong as an ox and doesn't think that a little thing like a nail puncture in your hand should slow you down.
In the meantime he's in the hospital recovering from his surgery and getting industrial-strength antibiotics pumped into him four times a day. This makes me happy. I work with a lot of people who are disdainful of Western medicine, and I'll agree that it's not perfect, but dealing with nail punctures is one of its strong points. (Memo to self: Get tetanus booster, then start nagging Dad about getting one, if they haven't done it already at the hospital.) He hopes to go home tomorrow, and I imagine that a week from now he'll be back on the job ignoring the doctor's orders to take it easy on the hand. I guess I'll have to call him Sunday night, and nag him a little about getting help when he needs to move 160 pounds of rock. I don't think it will do much good but at least he'll know I care.
This morning around quarter to seven the phone rings, and it's my dad. "Good mornin' darlin'" he said. "Dad!" I said, "how's your hand?" "How did you know I'd done something to my hand?" he said. "You told me," I said. "I did?" he said. Then I got worried.
After a little more conversation we worked out that he called after getting out of surgery and he didn't remember leaving the message on my machine. So that was ok. Then the details of why he had been in surgery came out. He hadn't had gotten medical attention after the injury--he'd gone on working. And during that day and the next the hand had gotten red and swollen and red streaks started appearing up and down his arm. So on Sunday a friend of his who was an anesthesiologist was visiting, and she said, "You are going to the hospital. Now." At the hospital the doctor looked at it and said, "You are going into surgery. Now."
At this point I was a little upset with my dad, who is 64 and has Type II Diabetes and ought to know by now that when his hand started swelling up it was a bad sign, so when he said something about being unhappy over missing a week of work I pointed out that maybe the next time he drove a nail into his hand he should see the doctor right away. "Well," he said, "the problem was that I had abused it a little that day. The nail hole sealed up right away, but then I moved 160 pounds of rock for a wall I was building. And then I accidentally hammered it twice." I probably would have put my head in my hands and wept, except that I was too busy rolling my eyes. I need to convince him to get first aid training. Or find him My First Book of Microbiology, so that he'll know what having red streaks up and down your arm means. He's not a stupid person, he's just strong as an ox and doesn't think that a little thing like a nail puncture in your hand should slow you down.
In the meantime he's in the hospital recovering from his surgery and getting industrial-strength antibiotics pumped into him four times a day. This makes me happy. I work with a lot of people who are disdainful of Western medicine, and I'll agree that it's not perfect, but dealing with nail punctures is one of its strong points. (Memo to self: Get tetanus booster, then start nagging Dad about getting one, if they haven't done it already at the hospital.) He hopes to go home tomorrow, and I imagine that a week from now he'll be back on the job ignoring the doctor's orders to take it easy on the hand. I guess I'll have to call him Sunday night, and nag him a little about getting help when he needs to move 160 pounds of rock. I don't think it will do much good but at least he'll know I care.