I talk about my father a lot on this blog, mostly because he is hilarious. And I am happy to share yet another story with you that involves ‘My Daddy’.
As you know I’ve been pretty ill for the past two weeks. It started late on a Friday night with a scratchy throat, itchy ears, and runny nose. I figured my symptoms were nothing more than ‘Seasonal Allergies’. But when I woke up that Saturday morning, it felt like a five-hundred-pound-man was sitting on my chest.
I immediately raced to my ‘Arsenal-O’Medication’ and popped a ‘Muscinex’ with a side of ‘Tylenol Severe Sinus’. It was absolutely beautiful outside and I did not want to waste the ‘Labor Day Holiday Weekend’ in my bed. Plus, I had a golf game that afternoon. I thought by playing golf I would sweat out whatever toxins were traveling through my body. Sadly, I was wrong. So. Very. Wrong.
Sunday morning I was knocking at ‘Death’s Door’. I could barley lift my head off the pillow. I was gasping for air and choking from coughing so hard. I tried every ‘Home Remedy’ known to man, including ‘Boling Myself’ via super hot baths and breathing in steam. Alas, nothing worked.
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday were spent in a Nyquil-Muscinex-Robotussin-Dimetapp-VicksVapoRub-Halls-PrimetineMist induced coma. By Wednesday, it became painfully obvious that ‘Over The Counter Medications’ weren’t going to cut it. I needed hard-core antibiotics. And of course my doctor was away on vacation.
Fortunately, my father is friends’ with another doctor, who just happens to be a ‘Pulmonary Specialist’. Considering I would probably need a chest x-ray, my dad went ahead and scheduled an appointment.
Since I was in no condition to drive a car, my poor father, the germaphobe, had to take me to see the doctor. And that’s exactly when being sick became very amusing. [At least to me.]
On the ride down, my father had forgotten his famous Face Mask, so he was forced to wear his hat on his face, as to prevent himself from breathing in my germs. Having not left the house for several days, I decided to take advantage of ‘Fresh Air’ and help my father, by riding with the car window all the way down, completely sticking my head out the window, much like a dog does when riding in a car.
When we arrived at the Doctors Office, I checked in, took my seat, and proceeded to hack up a lung. Thankfully, I had brought a huge box of tissues with me. I kept my face covered as much as possible. But that didn’t stop the three elderly people sitting next to me from moving clear across the room. Seriously? They couldn’t get far enough away.
After about five minutes of continuous wheezing, panting, and coughing, I noticed the two elderly women had shoved their faces into their own shirts as if they were hiding. They were noticeably disgusted by the noises emanating from my body. One of the two ladies, rolled up into the fetal position on the chair.
The elderly man, busy giving me the ‘Stink-Eye’ judgmentally asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know”, I replied sheepishly.
“Well, you don’t sound very good.” He said with a snide tone.
“Yeah. I know.” [cough cough] “I’m sick.” [cough cough] “That’s why I am here.” [cough cough] [cough cough] [cough cough]
The man was literally squirming in his chair, clearly uncomfortable seated anywhere within my vicinity.
After I was finished spitting lime-green-mucus into a tissue and throwing it into the trash, the elderly man inquired again, “How long have you been like that?”
“Since Saturday” I answered.
The elderly man shook his head in dismay and scowled at me as if I was suffering from leprosy. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father turning a bright shade of red. He was quite embarrassed by my germy-grossness. And I began sweating from overwhelming feelings of shame.
After another five consecutive minutes of listening to me wheezing, panting, and coughing, the elderly man got up from his seat and walked over to the reception desk.
“Excuse me,” he asked, “How much longer until my wife and I can see the doctor?”
The lady at the reception desk looked at the schedule and told him, “You are the next ones to be seen.”
Impatiently, the elderly man stated, “Well, I think I’m going to have to change my appointment.”
“There is no need for you to change your appointment sir.” The receptionist continued, “The doctor will be able to see you in five minutes.”
Apparently, that was not good enough.
The elderly man looked back over his shoulder directly at my father. The expression plastered on his face exclaimed, ‘please help me get away from your daughter.’ And as a fellow germ-a-phobe, my father was easily able to identify such an expression.
The elderly man began fidgeting, “Can’t you just put us in a room now?”
“No, sir.” The receptionist said, “All of the rooms are filled. You just have to wait five more minutes.”
“Well, is there any way we can just come through the other side of the door? We can wait by your desk.”
At that point, I could tell my father was becoming increasingly humiliated. My presence in the room was obviously upsetting the other patients. And that was more than my father could handle.
The elderly man desperately pleaded with the receptionist, “Ma’am is there any way we can stand on the other side of the door and wait for the doctor by your desk? Please!”
But she refused to give into his demands. Defeated, the elderly man took to his seat in waiting area again.
My father, totally mortified and not wanting to create any more of scene, decided it would be best for everyone, if I waited outside. Like in the parking lot – away from the offended people. And being the good daughter that I am, I obliged.
As I waited outside in the street and near the gutter, I felt completely undignified. I mean sorry if my cough was bothersome. But you have to expect to see sick people when you enter a doctors’ office. Yes?
After what seemed like forever, my father came outside to tell me the Elderly People had been taken into the back and I was now ‘allowed’ to return to the waiting area.
Gee. Thanks.
By the time my father and I were called into the examination room, suddenly, I was able to breathe without making a single sound. I stopped coughing. I stopped wheezing. As if I weren’t sick at all.
“Daddy, can you believe this?” I asked. “I don’t sound sick anymore!”
My father nodded his head in disbelief. “I don’t get it Mel…you’ve been a mess for four days and now that we are here, you sound much better!”
And then my father started laughing, uncontrollably and, hysterically.
My father gasped for air in between bouts of machine gun giggling, “We can always ask the elderly people to tell the Doctor what they saw and heard in the waiting room.”
******
Of course, by the time the doctor walked in, my father and I were doubled over laughing. And my cough had returned with a vengeance. I was immediately diagnosed with ‘Severe Bronchitis’. I’ve been on antibiotics for two weeks now and thankfully I am slowly on the mend.
