Father Punches Doctor and Then I Wake Up By John Esberg At Isnare.com Ezine Articles

About five years ago, my father was ill with a terminal lung disease. The doctors had told him, if he quit smoking, he might live another 5 years, but if he did not, he might last only 5 months. My father, had been smoking for 60 years. My father, either could not or would not, stop smoking.

My father began to lose weight, It was not long until he was only a shell of the man he used to be. My dad had always been a mans man. He did not take anything from anybody. He was tough. He was strong. He was one of the last of his generation. He never liked hospitals. But one day in November he ask us to take him there. He was placed in the Intensive Care Unit. His breathing had become very irregular.

He was seen by many doctors. All, continued to tell us, that he would be fine. That after a few weeks of rest, he would be back home. I could see in his face, that he did not believe it to be true. For the first time in my life, I saw my father show fear.

On a Sunday, the doctor ask us if he could put a breathing tube down my fathers throat, just to help him breath better, so he could rest. We agreed, because we trusted this doctor. He continued to assure us that dad would be fine. He shook off our questions as if they were foolish. The next morning, my father died. The nurse told us, his health was constantly getting worse from his first day of arrival.

I wanted, in my heart, to hit this doctor. I had hoped that he had not given my father the same false hope, that he had given us. I did not punch this doctor, but I have had dreams, and in those dreams, it is my father, strong once again, who punches the very same doctor. I wake up, and realize it is not reality. But even in death, at least in my dreams, my father shows his strength, for his son.

Now, I do not justify, in any terms, the punching of a Doctor, or anyone else for that matter. But sometimes, you have display that sign of strength for your family or those that you love. I feel like the Doctor had misinformed us on the condition of my father’s health. In addition, it was not just his failure to communicate information, but in his bedside demeanor. He seemed to talk down to us, and did not allow our questions, which were very important to us and our personal feelings, to be justifiable. As said, I wanted to hit him. It is a primal instinct. But, I restrained myself. This Doctor, regardless of his shortcomings, was who he was, for better or for worse. My dreams, a display of my father’s strength, were simply a reminder of my love and admiration for him. My respect for him, will live on, for all the days of my life.

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