On one of our Sunday visits, my sister and I noticed there was a growth on Dad’s left temple that seemed to getting bigger. Of course Dad’s pooh-poohed its importance, but to our untrained eyes it looked like another squamous cell tumor (Dad had already had several of these removed).
I told him that we were not going to fool around with this one, and I made the appointment with Dr. Mole (yes, that’s correct, not a typo), the physician who removed the last four. I met Dad at the appointment at the hospital the following Thursday, his birthday—and that’s where this story begins…
I pulled up next to Dad’s car in the free parking lot. How could I miss it: it was the only car so shiny you could see trees reflecting off the polished hood. The car was there, but no sign of Dad.
It was 2:35, and the appointment was for 2:45. I went into the hospital—and got lost. I must have met every doctor, nurse, security guard and cleaning woman in the building, yet no one knew who this Dr. Mole was. One security guard accused me of joking around, making me feel he was going to bring me in for potential “terrorist actions.” Nervously, I removed a paper from my pocket with the notes from when I made the appointment. It said “Room 130, Crain Building (the outpatient building next door.) Stupid me. Not because I was in the wrong building, and I cut through the Crain Building to get to the hospital, but because I was late. Dad probably thought I “broke the date” and was ready to pounce.
I finally met up with him. He was reading an article about tomatoes and started telling me about their anti-carcinogenic effects. (Now it’s tomatoes, I thought. Maybe we’ll have some next weekend over sauerkraut.) Dad then abruptly changed the subject and asked if I thought the growth on his forehead was getting smaller. (Of course, you agree. And then you realize it doesn’t matter what your answer is; he’s gonna go into a diatribe.) This one was about how he soaks his head in the bathtub water after adding a pint of vinegar. Mmmm, I thought. I wonder if he puts it on his tomatoes for lunch when he’s finished?
We waited for over an hour. Dr. Mole was one busy man this day, since it was his first day back from vacation. Dad made the hour feel like it was seconds…because he analyzed the physique of every person who entered the office. One attractive woman walked in wearing red high heels and matching pedal-pushers. As she was conversing with the receptionist, signing the ‘in book’, Dad kept his eyes locked on her feet.
The air conditioner was rumbling along with music from the ceiling, muffling conversations taking place among the other patients in the waiting room, when out of nowhere Dad projects: “Larry, see this woman?” as he pointed at her. “She has wonderful circulation in her feet. Watch the stride in her step as she turns around to sit down.” Startled, the woman abruptly turned around, and the others suddenly stopped their conversations, staring at us. I quickly looked at the carpet. I missed her athletic stride.
The nurse finally called Dad into one of the treatment rooms. He sat on the treatment chair and I sat on the chair in the corner. Dr. Mole came in and asked what the problem was. Dad said nothing and looked at me. I said we noticed a growth on the side of his head. Dr. Mole asked if it was bothering him. Dad said “no”. Of course, a broken glass bottle in his side would not bother Dad either—nor a turbo drill, ripping up his hand. This was to be no different. Dr. Mole asked again if it was bothering him. Dad responded “no” again. As a matter of fact, Dad told Dr. Mole he thought it was getting smaller since he soaked it in bathtub water with a pint of vinegar. Dr. Mole ignored Dad’s last statement and again asked if it was bothering him. Dad said “no.”
Then Dr. Mole exclaimed, “Well, if it’s not bothering you, then why are you here?” We answered that we wanted to have it removed. Of course, the question again: “Why, is it bothering you?” Then Dad got the hint. Dr. Mole explained, “If it’s not bothering you, and I remove it, then it’s considered cosmetic. Medicare will not cover it.” All of a sudden Dad took an about-face! “Yes, Doctor, it’s very painful when I touch it, and I can’t sleep on this side at all…” I looked at the floor, and Dr. Mole said, “See how easy it was? Now we can cover it on Medicare.” Phew! I don’t think Dad would spring for his wallet even for an emergency amputation! So we set up a preliminary schedule of appointments to have the surgical procedure done the following month.
As we left the hospital, the traffic light at the intersection suddenly went out. It was the start of the great northeast power failure of 2003, coincidentally Dad’s 91st birthday. With a wife stranded in Manhattan, my day only got worse. But I’m sure Dad’s got better. Not only was he covered by Medicare, but he was delighted to find a “new use” for the candles on his cake.
Thanks Larry for another great story.
You are clever, indeed, Larry!
iT WAS GOOD
Fine work Larry Blass!
Seriously, great story, well told.
Wow! The members of the greatest generation sure didn’t believe in babying themselves-or spending money unless it came from their contributions to the government’s slush fund collected over their many years of hard work. Way to go Dad! Nothing to top this story, but my mother once soaked her sprained ankle in epsom salts nightly for 6 months to avoid a trip to the doctor & it worked. Keep the stories coming! Maybe our kids will write about us someday!
Thanks for the kind comments; Medicare sure got their money’s worth out of my father-in-law! And can you believe it: I was just watching the TODAY show, and there was a segment on skin health (i.e., avoiding the sun to avert skin cancer) and one of the recommended anti-cacinogenic foods was TOMATOES!! We laughed, but again, my father-in-law was right…..
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