Fun conversations with my parents – ongoing

Have you met my dad? He’s a kinder, gentler Archie Bunker who looks a little like Dick Cheney. For years, we worried about his health, but recently, through sheer will and determination, he put his love of pork products on hold to lose about twenty-five pounds and cut his diabetes meds in half.

We are so proud.

Upon his recent retirement, Dad made another change. He converted over to government health care. Quite a shock, considering his conservative streak and long-held opinion, expressed over many a dinner and glass of wine, that the government “can’t get shit right.”

The docs did a thorough screening, including an EKG, and discovered he’d had a heart attack.

“When?” I asked after he relayed the story, hoping and praying they’d say years before the diet began.

Dad shrugged his shoulders. “The cardiologist’ll take a look and let me know. In the meantime, I have to take an aspirin every day and stick with the new diet and exercise routine.”

Hallelujah.

“But that ain’t all,” he said.

Husband and I waited to see what else might be falling apart.

“The doc asked a lot of questions, one of them was if I’d been exposed to Agent Orange in Vietnam,” he continued.

“Wow,” I interrupted. “This government doctor is quite thorough. Your private physician never checked for heart problems and probably didn’t even know you served in Vietnam. Are you a socialist now?”

Dad then began what has quickly become a routine. When faced with one of my annoying questions, he now closes his eyes and points at his chest, as if another heart attack is imminent. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the sirens and my mother insisting she can take the wine glass into the ambulance.

I immediately feel guilty and stop pestering him.

I’m sure he wishes he’d thought of this years ago.

“After a question and answer period that was, yes, thorough,” he concluded, “apparently I’m showing symptoms of exposure.”

“What are the symptoms?” Husband asked. “An attraction to reality shows about spider bites?”

“I know,” I said. “This explains your Ronnie Milsap phase.”

“Diabetes,” he said, tapping his ticker again to get me to shut up. “My diabetes is the symptom of exposure to Agent Orange.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I thought your diabetes was a symptom of your relationship with bacon double-cheese burgers. What does this mean? Because if you get disability, between that and Social Security and Medicare, you will be the recipient of several government-sponsored programs. I think this is officially worse than marrying a Protestant. Don’t let anyone know that you’re now a part of something you used to yell at us tree-hugging hippies about.”

“Hey,” he said, with that twinkle in his eyes he gets when he’s about to make sense. “Did any of you tree-hugging hippies ever dodge bullets in a jungle? Did any of you ever recover from shrapnel wounds? Did any of you ever pull leeches out of your ass?”

“You have a point,” I said, conceding the obvious.

“I’m serious as a heart attack.”

I paused. And smiled.

“Is that your new catch phrase now?” I asked.

“It’s better than ‘Get the hell out of my way.’”

“Again. You make a very good point.”