Good News: My dad went and had the second stress test done. The muscle on the back of his heart is weakening. They want to put in a defibrillator. This is a fixable problem. And since he has a porcine valve instead of a metal one, there should not be any complications should the defibrillator need to give him a jolt. There is the silver lining and I’m about to tint it red…
Bad News: After I had digested this information and realized it really was good news (it could have been much worse), Creative Hadena kicked in and I had a horrid thought. Let me explain.
My father is the Mister Fix-It type. Unfortunately, he’s not very good at it (think Tim The Tool Man Taylor). Also, over the years, he has had a slew of problems with his stomach and digestive system. His abdominal cavity is rock hard because it is filled with gas (methane is the primary one) that has leaked out of his stomach and digestive system during different surgeries and incidents. For about twenty years, I’ve made the odd joke that someone needs to deflate him.
Now, I realize that someone really does need to deflate my father before he gets the defibrillator or he is likely to spontaneous explode (there’s the terrible thought). In my mind, it goes like this:
My father decides to fix something with an electrical current. But he’s my father, so he gets shocked. The defibrillator has a meltdown (as they are wont to do when they receive an unexpected jolt) and catches fire. However, before my father can be extinguished the super heated defibrillator meets up with the gasses trapped between my father’s inner fleshy core and his organs, causing him to spontaneous explode as opposed to spontaneously combust.
That is a seriously sick thing to think. I know. I’m not sure they make medicines to control those kinds of thoughts. While it is partly a symptom of my anxiety (holy shit! My dad might explode!), it is also a symptom of my creative-logical brain. The logical part says Dad is full of flammable gasses, we should fix this problem when we put in the defibrillator. The creative part says Dad is full of flammable gasses, he’s going to explode if the defibrillator gets a short. The worst part is, the creative part of my brain, immediately inserted the Mr. Creosote sketch from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life.
Then the tiny voice, that rarely speaks says Who the hell has problems like these? And what sort of sick individual begins picturing their father exploding while working on an electrical socket? Now, not only have I had this thought and admonished myself for it, but I really am wondering what exactly is wrong with my lineage that we have to worry about things like spontaneous human explosion. I’ve never heard of such a thing.
That’s when it goes from you’re only sort of a terrible person, because your concern is in the right place, you really don’t want your father to spontaneously explode to holy hell, you actually are a terrible person because you are now wondering if you can make it a plot in a book. Once again, that little voice pipes up and asks what the hell is wrong with you?!?
I’m sorry to say that I have no answer to that. I have an excuse; I’m a writer, I need plots, no matter how shocking and twisted. But it isn’t a very good one. I’m pretty sure I’m going to Hell for that thought. I’m also certain that should I make it a book plot, that they will reserve me a special spot, one really close to the fires. Actually, I might have earned that spot with this blog post…