My Dad-if he answered the phone when my Mah was alive-he'd immediately pass the receiver over to her and she'd get a chair. I think that's what we called them in the olden days. Receivers.
So, I never knew what a fantabulous laugher he is.
Everyday, I try to say something really awful to make him crack up. Last thing we laughed about was that from now on I've decided we're calling it 'wind'.
He's also been monitoring my health.
I'd say: I'm itchy. He says: Good. You're healing.
Having burning pain in my belly. Healing.
(A variation on this theme is the classic: Your voice sounds a lot better.)
So I'm talkin' to him yesterday telling him I'm still uberconstipated** and after he says 'Oh dear.' he says, Didja have a Coke?
A Coke? Is that supposed to do something? I say. (You do not know the extremes I've visited. Shudder. )
I don't know, he says.
Later, P gets home and I say, my Dad asked me if I had a Coke.
And a lightbulb goes off over P's head. Coke and chocolate.
What? sez me.
P's Dad told HIM about that combo many years ago, he says.
What? says me. That sounds crazy. Go get some, will ya?
So I'm drinking a glass of Coca-Cola and eating a couple of those fun-sized Hershey bars and thinking, in another time and space. I would have considered this some sort of a feast but this is pretty gross actually. Drink another Coke. My belly is starting to hurt a little. Wind from the south. Uggh.
Day goes on. I reinvent the rat trap.(see figure A*) Feel like crap. Watch three episodes of Blue Bloods in a row. Get in bed with these tiny tiny pains and all of a sudden. Eureka. And Eureka. And Eureka. And Eureka. (can you dig it?)
This morning-for fun-I started looking at pictures of hair colors. Healing.
*(Fig. A) See, we think the rats were squeezing out from under the sink, so with the assistance of these old drawers-we dog proofed the traps. We haven't captured one but we're also not leaving dog food or water out so maybe they've moved on to the people who live below us and smoke some sort of herbal concoction which is making me wanna heave. A person can hope, right?
**A friend who also experienced this post-abdominal surgery, hardcore, gut contents turns into plaster of paris said it was so bad for her that she cried. Have you made your colonoscopy appointment yet?