Most of you know that my mom is pretty much the best mom ever. I’ve talked about her a good deal on this old blog and she frequently comments with things that probably only make sense to me and probably make you think she’s a little batty. Which she is, but in a good way. Anyway, maybe you were wondering about why I never talk about my dad, and the only reason I can come up with is because he is too strange a dude to write about. No, really. Just looking around their house I spied a book on raising poultry, one on how to pick mushrooms, the New Hampshire guide to deep sea fishing, a tide chart, and some kind of diagram detailing how to tell if the ground is a level plane from inside a backhoe. So basically, nothing at all that would indicate that we are biologically related.
Still, he’s my padre, and occasionally we realize that we have the same twisted sense of humor*. Also occasionally, I enjoy helping him with home improvement projects. So the other day he asked me to mow the lawn, something I have never done in my thirty years of life, and he would edge everything with the weed whacker. Sure, I can do that! No problem! I got going, and really, mowing is not so bad. There’s something soothing in creating all those symmetrical lines. So I’m mowing, and mowing, and suddenly I look around and see the weed whacker on the ground and my dad is nowhere in sight. I didn’t think much of it, maybe he went to get some water or something. I guess it’s not like him to leave the weed whacker in the middle of the driveway, but whatever…
When I finally finished mowing, sweaty and covered in grass, he still had not come back. I stomped into the house to find him lying sprawled out on the couch. I yelled at him for being lazy and hanging out in the air conditioned house while I was outside sweating my ass off and then I really looked at him. Dudes, he was gray and clammy and wheezing and I FREAKED THE HELL OUT. He squeezed out that something had stung him and he had tried to flag me down but I didn’t see him so he came in to see if he could relax. Relax! My dad was in anaphylactic shock and he came inside to have a relaxing little lie down without telling me. AND THEN I YELLED AT HIM. Awesome Daughter Award, coming right up.
At that point I ran around and around trying to find his epipen and trying desperately to remember what our school nurse had told us about administering them. The padre refused to let me call an ambulance (he didn’t want to “inconvenience anyone”) and so I finally found his epipen (on top of the refrigerator- worst place ever) and handed it to him while hustling him into the car. As soon as we started driving I was talking him through the steps of the epipen and he just kept sitting there, holding it in his hand. It was frustrating, and I probably yelled at him a little more, and finally I pulled the car over and took the epipen from him because I was worried it was getting too late.
I now know what it is like to stab someone in the thigh with a giant needle. It is gross, and there is a lot of blood. Thank the stars I had a pile of napkins in the car because oh my goodness, so much blood. On the bright side, four years of working in a school prepared me for that moment so I didn’t even freak out, I just continued on to the hospital where they took him immediately to a room before the hordes of other people that were sitting waiting with emergencies of their own. Two IVs, some benadryl, some pure oxygen, and an hour long nap later and we were on our way home, my dad decidedly not dead.
NPW for the win! Maybe I should have been a nurse? I could have been Florence Nightingale Wannabe! Ugh, never mind, even the idea of cleaning out bedpans makes me want to vomit.
So that was my Friday night. How was yours?
*I also took a picture of my dad hooked up to the oxygen and the million little electrodes in the hospital and texted it to my sister with the message “having fun, wish you were here”. Both my dad and I thought that was hilarious. My sister, not so much. Like I said, twisted.