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Kirby: With Dad recovering in bed, I’m tempted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Got some handcuffs?

Robert Kirby

My 84-year-old father is doing well after last week's medical emergency. Transported by ambulance to Jordan Valley Medical Center, they cut off his badly infected toe and put him on a heavy antibiotic regimen.

Every morning, I drive him from Sagewood at Daybreak, where he lives, to the hospital, where they shoot him full of more antibiotics. He gets a little grouchy during these visits.

The good news is that the IV therapy nurse doesn't take any back talk. Lisa Pardee sounds and acts exactly like what she is: a middle-age, highly trained Boston Catholic nurse.

The Old Man has been around. His Spidey Sense might not be what it used to, but it still works. I watched him grow uneasy.

Him • "She sounds tough."

Me • "It's the accent, Dad. This one will hit you for real. Do whatever she says."

Watching Nurse Lisa get the Old Man prepped and ready to inject, I saw him slip into a docile demeanor completely opposite to the jailer-vs.-inmate relationship I had with him growing up.

Her • "OK, raise ya ahm now, Mistah Kubby."

Him • "No problem."

Seeing him on the bed brought back a morning from nearly 50 years ago, when I told Mom I was too sick to go to school. I was lying, of course. I just didn't want to go. I had plans. She knew it but wasn't big enough to make me get up.

Mom went back upstairs to finish getting ready for work at the veterans hospital. A few minutes later, the Old Man showed up in my room. I could tell he was annoyed because he was dressed for work as a criminal investigator at Fort Douglas. Arguing with me meant he would be late.

I should have realized something was amiss when he didn't just grab a leg and drag me out of bed and up the stairs. Instead, he calmly inquired if I was really sick.

Me • "I [cough, COUGH] am. I think I just need to stay in bed today."

Him • "Sounds good."

With that, he handcuffed my right wrist to the large iron headboard of my bed and left. Two minutes later, the house was silent.

Note: To those shocked by this parental behavior, I can only say that you didn't have to raise me. Count yourself lucky. If this is all it takes to upset you, I would have driven you out of your gosh darn mind in less than a month.

It took the better part of an hour to dismantle my bed to the point where I could drag the headboard into the bathroom to pee.

After that, my day was shot. I couldn't meet up with Bammer and go smoke something somewhere. It's hard to be unobtrusive dragging around a giant headboard.

My response to being chained up was limited. I couldn't very well smash stuff, set the house on fire, and leave. Dragging the headboard, the Old Man would have caught me in two minutes. I was stuck.

Nine hours later, the Old Man came home and found me still in my underwear, watching "Dialing for Dollars" and eating cold cereal. He uncuffed me and said he hoped I was fully recovered. I was.

Watching my father lying on the bed and getting the medication he needed to prolong his life, I was deeply conflicted. I felt love for the man who cared enough about me to go to the extremes necessary to keep my life on track.

I also wished that I had a set of handcuffs.