Friday, January 3, 2014

Hospital Etiquette

My father spent the few days before Christmas in the hospital. 

[side note! My dad frequents the hospital quite often. Usually from freak accidents. His foresight went AWOL when he was 5--just before his first attempt to fly wearing his Superman costume. He's regenerative, I'm pretty sure. In fact, he is what the Wolverine movies were based off. I mean besides the killing, and other mutants and stuff.]

Back to last week's hospital story. It was nothing major, but his diet was restricted. I saw him on Monday. I knew he was okay when he refused to wear the hospital gown and insisted on wearing jeans with no shirt in order to monitor how much muscle mass he was losing. (The final answer was: Man, Phe! I went from Hugh Jackman to Dana Carvey in 4 days!) 

He called Tuesday. He sounded very upset and opened the conversation with, "Phe, I'm literally dying." 

My heart sank as I suppressed all outward emotion. "When? Why? I just saw you yesterday. What did they find? How much time do you have left. I'm on my way."

He screamed, "WAIT! WAIT! They are starving me in here. I only get chicken broth with a bit of jello. I'm wasting away. I just need one McDub (McDouble) and some fries."

Joking about "literally dying" while in the hospital should be illegal.

I tried to reason with him, but he was adamant he would only survive maybe 14 more hours on the broth diet. 

It's good to know that happiness in the Wright family is almost exclusively determined by blood sugar levels. 

I caved and bought him the Happy Meal. He had to James Bond it while eating in order to keep the nurses from "having an 
aneurysm" (again. Hospital jokes. Not funny, Dad, not funny). While he packed it, I made sure to threaten his life, "Hey Dad, I will literally kill you if I accidentally kill you via this Happy Meal." 

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