One hot and humid weekend the summer my brother was ten years old, he told our father his stomach hurt.
“Try going to the bathroom,” my dad said.
We were vacationing on the Eastern Shore of Maryland on our boat. My dad sat bayside with a beer in hand and a cigarette snug in his lips, watching the sun set. My brother came back an hour later.
“Dad, my stomach still hurts.”
“Well, did you poop?”
“No.”
“Try again.”
The next morning, my brother continued to complain about his gut.
“You’ll be fine,” my dad said as we packed the car for our return trip.
Half way to Pennsylvania, my brother started to cry. Dad pulled over the car and did an impromptu stomach examination. We headed straight to the Reading Hospital whereupon my brother passed out in the reception area. He was rushed into surgery for an emergency appendectomy.
It’s true . . . when you have a doctor for a dad you have to be almost dead before going to the hospital.
About the boat. Many people have the impression that doctors have lavish lifestyles because they make a lot of money. My guess is that some physicians do, but my dad was an ER doc, a specialty that is on the lower end of the medical pay scale. My parents also had (and still have) the let’s-fix-up-this-run-down-200-year-old house disease. And they are generous to a fault. Plus they had four kids and we had ponies, ducks, goats, soccer team trips, dance lessons, prom dresses, soccer cleats, college tuitions, and huge appetites. As a result, their bank account suffered.
That “boat” was a forty-foot long, old wooden fishing vessel named the Sheryl Dee. It had pinprick holes in the roof and whenever it rained the unlucky occupants in the top bunks got soaked. And if it was a pounding deluge, the bilge pump usually shorted. That meant all hands on deck and we’d scoop buckets of water into the bay. The worst part of the Sheryl Dee was that we all had to jam into a single little sleeping cabin. Most nights, together with my mom and siblings, we’d sit on the dock until the wee hours of the morning because my dad snored so loudly that nobody could sleep.
Just because you have a doctor for a dad it doesn’t mean you’ll have luxurious accommodations.
To that point, growing up, my oldest brother and I shared the third floor of our old Victorian house, each with our own small attic bedroom. There was no heat on this level. And the thought of a space heater never occurred to anyone.
Nope.
Instead, I wore long johns, a sweat suit, two pairs of socks on my feet and two pairs on my hands, and a hat to bed. I’d sleep stick straight for fear of rolling over onto an ice patch. It’s said that the colder the room you sleep in, the healthier you are. That might be true as I had perfect attendance in grade school (part of that might have been due to the you’re-not-sick-unless-you’re-dying family philosophy, too).
Remember, when you have a doctor for a dad, heat is not guaranteed.
Wow, Heather! It sounds like your dad is a cold, unfeeling person.
Actually, nothing could be less true.
My father is a man of his word who is deeply thoughtful, kind, and reliable. But—he doesn’t worry about minor discomforts like wet or freezing sleeping quarters or a little cold. He believes most things can be fixed.
And I guess that’s because he’s seen what can’t be fixed.
Like the elegant, elderly lady who finally resigned herself to visiting the emergency room because there was a tiny problem with her legs. She was dressed impeccably and sat in her wheelchair with a beautiful blanket draped over her lap. My dad lifted the coverlet to find her legs dead below her knees and infested with maggots too far damaged to ever be fixed.
Or maybe it was the stoic farm boy who arrived at the ER in the front seat of his father’s pick-up truck with his severed legs in the back seat. He’d fallen under the rotary blade of his dad’s tractor.
My father rushed out of the hospital, and flung open the truck’s door.
“How will I play soccer without my feet?” the little boy asked. “I just made the team.”
My dad lifted the boy into his arms, turning the lad’s head to rest in chest. My father didn’t want the boy to see the orderly place his bloody legs on the gurney.
There’d be no fixing. The kid’s soccer days were over.
Or being called during a family dinner because the neighbor knows my dad is a doctor and there’s been a motorcycle accident on the edge of the village. And my father, arriving first on the scene, to find a young man—a part-time police officer he knew—splattered on the road. My dad, rode in the ambulance, calling ahead to the ER, shouting instructions, but knowing the town’s police officer would not make it. That there was nothing to be done, but hold the young man’s hand.
The situation was unfixable.
My dad knows that bad things can happen and do. But he believes, more deeply than most people, that it’s important not to sweat the small stuff, because time and time again it is small stuff.
Most things can be fixed.
Whether it’s a stomachache, a rain shower, or a cold winter.
Though not a religious man, my dad is known to say, “Time and Jesus heal most things.” In other words, This too shall pass. And 99% of the time it does.
That’s what it’s really like to have a doctor for a dad.
I’ve battled a pesky cold and an annoying cough the last couple of weeks. At Sunday dinner, I asked my dad how to get rid of it, if I should go to Patient First. He sort of smirked.
“Really, Dad, what should I do? How long should I wait before I go to see a doctor?”
“If it doesn’t go away in a year, I’d start to worry,” he said.
And that was that.
Postscript
David James Christie
07/01/1941 – 02/22/2019
Husband. Father. Healer.
Click here to read my favorite post about my dad.
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I told a doctor I broke my leg in two places.
He told me to quit going to those places.
—Henny Youngman
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When I’m not writing, I’m selling real estate. One time, I swear, I sold a house because the seller had Coq au Vin cooking on the stovetop. It smelled so welcoming and delcious! Here’s Julia Child’s recipe. I found it on Leite’s Culinaria (a cool site for recipes and cooking tips).
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I am so excited! My novel, What The Valley Knows, is going to be published Jan. 25, 2018! Join my mailing list HERE to get my once-a-month book updates and new blog post.
xoxo,
Heather
You captured the essence of what life was like in our family.
Wow….very good story.
Thanks for reading, Bruce! I appreciate your comment!
I remember all of these stories vivdly. We are so lucky to have such an incredible human be our Dad.
We are so lucky in the dad department. Our father is a true man of his word and he embodies honor.
Thanks for reading, Troy! Yep, my dad has great lessons to pass along to all of us.
What a great life lessons he gave you! Wonderful read!
Thanks, Darla!
Another terrific blog! I told my doctor: “It hurts when I do this”. His reply: “Just don’t do it.” Love your dad’s attitude.
Another great book would be to compile all your blogs!
In pregan (pre vegan) days, I remember cooking Julia’s Coq au Vin and right now I’m sitting here salivating!
Thanks, Geri! I’ve been playing with the idea of putting the blogs together in a book one day . . . sort of a Chicken Soup For The Soul type format. We’ll see. First, I have to write a lot more of them so I’d be able to pick “the best of the best.” Ernst Hemingway said that a great training to become a writer is to write a short story every week. In a way, that’s what I’m doing with the blog. As always, thanks for your support. One of these days I’m coming to NYC to meet you!
Great blog, love pop-pop!!
I know exactly how you feel Heather. Like I always tell people the Cardiologist s wife will die of a heart attack!
It’s quite possible, Sue! But don’t worry, I promise to call 911 in the event you have a heart attack while we’re on a walk.
What a great story! I could have kept on reading! Beautifully written!
Thanks, Ann! My hope is to get some of my dad’s stories recorded for future generations of our family to enjoy.
In a time of over-reactive parenting, it’s refreshing to hear about the calm, wait-and-see approach. It builds character. Oh, how nice it would be if we could all pull back and worry less. Your dad sounds wonderful!
I agree! A little of my dad’s approach has worn off on me and I try to wait before rushing my kids to the doctor. Ironically, I think both of my kids are hypochondriacs.
Too funny. I have one of each: one that runs to me with a hangnail thinking her hand is going to fall off and the other who I’ve been force feeding bananas to for years and just finally told me his throat get scratchy when he eats them. WHAT?!
That is too funny, Lisa!
Love the share it’s a crisp picture of how not to envy others because what your dad has seen no one should but without his job so many of us would be lost. Grateful xo:)
Mari, thanks. I’ll pass your warm message onto my dad. Thanks for reading.
Another great story Heather! Dad always had a tough blue collar attitude, and I am thankful for that.Time and Jesus baby, that’s all you need.
I hear you, bro! Yes, I am thankful for our father’s down-to-earth attitude.
Such a rich and full piece, Heather! I could see you on the third floor with your layers of clothing and on the boat bunk trying to stay dry. You tell your father story with love and regard..I hope you’ll share more
Thanks, Faye. This means so much coming from a writer like you.
So interesting to see and hear about your life as a Dr’s kid. The combination of humor,low key attitude and heartfelt love all made a great short story.
My dad is a quiet man. Our family jokes about how little he talks, but he has interesting stories buried deep inside. I’m trying to record them while he is still around.
Sounds familiar in the Christman household (grandpa was the doctor). Even I say to my daughter to toughen up / put a sweatshirt on (why does she want to walk around in a t shirt and shorts in the middle of winter?). 3 days on my death bed before I go to the doctor is my rule of thumb.
I agree with you on the three day rule. I have to be pretty darn sick to go to the doctor. For years, I didn’t have a GP because I would just have my dad check out whatever ailed me.
Loved this!
Loved this blog- I like the saying Never sweat the small stuff- I agree!
Thanks, Denise. Yup, we need to keep things in perspective. Most things can be fixed.