by Phyllis
Quite some time ago, I wrote a series of posts about a series of visits to a doctor. Yes, the good Dr. Bester. You will want to start at the beginning of the story for one of two reasons: 1) You were riveted when you read them the first time and you can't wait to read them again; 2) You haven't read them and want to read something incredibly clever, interesting, and wrote good.
Have fun. Really.
But I was thinking about this the other day. I mentioned to someone that my ear hurt and that person offered the opinion I might have an ear infection. I said I doubted it. And then I thought about Dr. Bester.
Remember in part 5, how he twice tested my ability to stay conscious? And how I wondered why he would do such a thing, would subject me to that without warning or drugs or anything? I just figured out why. As you recall from part 1, he was quite astonished I was not complaining of pain when I went to see him the first time. Evidently more astonished than I had ever really imagined until the other day when I came to the realization he equates stent removal pain with ear infection pain.
Nothing ground-breaking, I know. But worth noting, I suppose.
In any case, stay tuned for a series of posts (I think I could get through it all in 15-20 of 'em) about my recent colonoscopy.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
My Dad
As I begin this post, it is 5 minutes to 12 midnight on the 13th of January. So it is still 8 years to the day my dad passed away. And something weird happened a minute ago: as I read my baby sister's simple post on her blog, I began to comprehend a concept I may not have before: Denial.
Because I sat there staring at his picture, his suit coat, white shirt and tie (a common outfit for him), his happy grin, those slightly crooked teeth (thanks a lot, Dad!), that thick forest of hair (compared to me, anyway), that nose, those glasses--all of it--and I COULD NOT believe he was gone. It WAS NOT true. At that moment, I would not have been surprised to see him walk through the door. As he silently squinted back at me from my computer screen, I was convinced he could not be dead. I remember too much about him, and it is all too vivid, and present, and real, that for me to realize again he passed away took great effort.
My dad was great. That may have been said a billion times by a billion people, but it makes it no less true in my case. My dad was the greatest man I have known. An example to me of hard work, patience, kindness, diligence, politeness, forgiveness, perseverance, and selfless service.
Farewell, dear Father, shall we meet again?
Please know I hold you as the best of men,
Whose noble life I aim to imitate,
Though I may fail to mimic one so great.
Because I sat there staring at his picture, his suit coat, white shirt and tie (a common outfit for him), his happy grin, those slightly crooked teeth (thanks a lot, Dad!), that thick forest of hair (compared to me, anyway), that nose, those glasses--all of it--and I COULD NOT believe he was gone. It WAS NOT true. At that moment, I would not have been surprised to see him walk through the door. As he silently squinted back at me from my computer screen, I was convinced he could not be dead. I remember too much about him, and it is all too vivid, and present, and real, that for me to realize again he passed away took great effort.
My dad was great. That may have been said a billion times by a billion people, but it makes it no less true in my case. My dad was the greatest man I have known. An example to me of hard work, patience, kindness, diligence, politeness, forgiveness, perseverance, and selfless service.
Farewell, dear Father, shall we meet again?
Please know I hold you as the best of men,
Whose noble life I aim to imitate,
Though I may fail to mimic one so great.
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