The Old Man was rushed to the hospital last week. A raging infection in his foot had compromised his physical and mental condition.
I showed up after the South Jordan ambulance people had already arrived. They were busy trying to assess what was wrong with him. I tried to help out.
Them • "Does your chest hurt, Mr. Kirby?"
Him • "Yes."
Them • "Do you have any pain in your feet?"
Him • "Yes."
Me • "Are you pregnant with a space monster's baby?"
Him • "Yes."
A lifetime of military and police work has conditioned my father's failing mind to agree with anything anyone in uniform suggests to him. I still require being ordered. When told to wait in the front room, I did.
Long story short, they transported him to Jordan Valley Medical Center, where doctors cut off a badly infected toe and stabbed him full of enough antibiotics to cure every STD in Hollywood. He's doing much better now. Here, see for yourself.
Me • "How're you feeling, ya old coot?"
Him • (Grabbing my mustache) "That space monster stuff better not show up in the newspaper."
Enough about that. I would like express how grateful I am to the emergency crews who showed up, the emergency room staff who admitted him, and the doctors who diagnosed his condition and operated on him. Of them, I have only praise.
The Old Man is still in the hospital while they wait for the antibiotics to clear up his infection. Mom sits with him most of the time. He's almost back to his crotchety self, thinking he's in charge of everything.
I try to help. Mostly I back up Mom when she tells him to do something. Mom is only 2½ feet tall now, and her back is a real problem. I'm still big enough to make what she says stick. It's a role reversal I rather enjoy.
A good example would be me telling the Old Man to stop ordering the medical staff around. I warned him that one of the nurses was Latina.
Him • "So what?"
Me • "So you can't boss Latina nurses around. She'll smack you. I'm serious. If you want to be rude to the nurses, be rude to the white ones."
With my expert help and guidance, the Old Man graduated Monday to acute care. Another week of antibiotics, and he can probably go home with the nine toes he has left.
Now I want to weigh in regarding the health care crisis in America. It's expensive. Everyone knows that. It's also full of stupid, confusing and sometimes even contradictory regulations. You know that as well.
But you're probably not going to believe this. When I asked the surgeon if I could keep the Old Man's toe, he told me "absolutely not."
Outraged, I demanded a reason. I wanted the toe in a jar on my desk as a memento for all the times it was used to boot some sense into me.
According to the doctor, not only did they need to send part of the toe to the lab for testing, they needed to keep the rest to prove they had actually removed it. Like it not being there anymore wasn't proof enough.
What kind of health care system do we have where not only is it expensive and confusing, but they also won't let you keep the leftover parts?
When I explained this nonsense to my father later, he seemed to perk up.
"Relax. You're not getting anything in the will, either."
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.