VIP Treatment

It was National Health Care Worker Week, and Dad decided to test the system. I flew in from Seattle, arriving to set up a spaghetti lunch in the hallway, per our usual routine. He got up from his recliner, lost his balance and went down on the floor head first. I heard the clunk. I was calm, he was mellow, we commented about how men should always swoon in my presence. The aides appeared, the paramedics arrived. I figured his time was up. This was going to be the final chapter – broken bones, stroke, coma, find the organ donor form. Real time advocacy. I followed the ambulance to the ER – again. I know the way.

I forgot that my father has 9 lives just like a cat; I’ve personally saved 3 of them. I think this was episode #5. Scripps Hospital gives him frequent user perks. The CT scan, x-rays, and lab panels were all done quickly by caring professionals. He was discharged in a few hours. Nothing was wrong except a urinary tract infection, common in the elderly (which might explain why he’s wobbly). Me to Dad: “have you noticed any pain when you pee?” Dad to me: “oh that? Sure. I don’t bother mentioning these things, I’m just happy to get a shower.”

I won’t pretend all is fine. My father scared the shit out of me. Along with his issues I’ve been juggling clients with mental health crises, dental bills and brain cancer. I’m regularly on hold with insurance companies and mostly bang my head in frustration. But - apparently I have a thick skull just like Dad. He bounces back from trauma, I create billable hours from it.

While chowing down his non-kosher grilled shrimp and bacon salad today (because lettuce is healthy), a nurse stopped by to compliment his VIP treatment. Dad beamed: “Yes. I’m a VIP when my daughter is here. I’m a Vogel in Paradise.”  How’s that for validation?