Shouldering the Burden

Last night I received a swell phone call from my mom, informing me from the hospital that my dad fell on a job site and dislocated his shoulder. The exact sequence of events is a bit foggy to me—something about a hole to a crawl space in a dark closet. Of course, upon hearing the news, I instantly began fretting for the following reasons: He’s my dad. He’s 62 years old (not—ahem—that that’s old or anything. . . ). He works with his hands—construction. What will happen with all of his jobs? Surly older German men make terrible patients. He has a rotten track record of obeying doctors’ orders. He’ll need physical therapy/rehabilitation to regain strength. What are the chances that this delightfully stubborn man will a) actually go, and b) do what he’s supposed to do? He believes himself wiser than the majority of the medical establishment, promoting the Dale Opp School of Medicine’s two basic tenets: 1) Tough it out, and 2) get over it. This leads to far too much self-diagnosis and treatment. Maybe it’s a guy thing—Chris is the same way. He’ll worry that x, y, and z indicate some combination of heart disease and cancer, but go to the doctor? Never! Anyhoo, I talked to my mom this morning and it sounds like everything is much better today. Shoving his shoulder back into place significantly improved the pain. Dad is in good spirits, went to work this morning (he promised just to direct people who are doing the grunt work), and so far hasn’t scoffed at the idea of physical therapy (so far as I know). He seems to think the jobs he currently has going will work out okay. He’s returning to California to continue working on a renovation for my aunt and uncle in a few weeks, so I’m not sure how rehab will fit with that, but I guess he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.