Think Twice Before Spitting On The Hand That Feeds You

I am sitting in the emergency room with my dad. He fell down, and no, I did not push him. I know I should feel very sorry for the old geezer right now however as I sit here listening to him moan and groan, I find myself wanting to say something my mother use to say to us, "See, God punished you for being so mean."

Now, I know that God does not punish old men by pushing them down, even when they are mean and He might really want to. I also know, my mom surely regretted using this plan of attack on us when we were younger after she had to pay for our therapy years later. Never-the-less, the mean streak in me wants to say it. Thank goodness, I have a healthy fear of God which makes it possible for me to sit here and just think it and not actually say it. Now before you correct my theology, I know I shouldn't be thinking it either but cut me a break right now.

My dad got up this morning looking for a fight. I understand he was a boxer, won trophies, World Hall of Fame, blah, blah, blah but 4516 Ryan Dr N.E. is not the ring and I am not Don King. Ok, my hair may look like Don King's most days but so what, I am still not him. It seems this is the way it goes with my dad. For the last eight years or so he is either hot or cold with no middle ground. One day, he is calling everyone he sees darling and sweetheart and the next he is taking swings at anyone who dares to deny him what he wants. Today was a come out swinging day. Is it the dang bell in the bird cage? Does he mistake that for the bell in the ring and think it's time to rumble? Who knows anymore?

So he was griping at just about everyone this morning, with that scowl he gets when he is in one of those moods. He didn't like breakfast, didn't like the juice, didn't like the temperature of the room, and on and on and on. After he called me for the fifth time in thirty minutes just to grumble, I told him I was done and unless he was going to be nice he didn't need to call me again. That's when Miranda stepped in.

Our daughter, Miranda, might only be eleven years old, but she has the patience and grit of Job when it comes to my dad. He can be brutal to her and she always responds the same way. It's either, "Oh, grandpa" when she laughs it off and just keeps loving him or it's, "Hey! You better be nice, Grandpa!", when she is concerned he has taken it a step too far and might end up in a nursing home or psych ward.

Ok, he just took a swing at the ER nurse for trying to put oxygen on him. When I told him to be nice, he told me to, "Get lost!!" I would so like to get lost right now. Like in Hawaii or Europe or even Oklahoma City. I am beyond ready for a day without being yelled at. Having an eighty-nine year old two year old is exhausting. I made a promise to my mother on her death bed. She made me promise I would take care of my dad. I promised, knowing full well he would never move to Oklahoma and always preferred my little sister. Do you think God ever listens to our less than sincere promises and then laughs knowing full well He is going to give us an opportunity to come through on them? I do!

Sorry, I got off-track. Shocking, I know. Anyway, so this morning when I left the room after my final warning to the old man, Miranda thought she would help me by giving him his pills that were still sitting there. Of course, he hid them in his pocket, flicked them across the table, tried to feed them to the dog and finally ..... finally, spit on Miranda! You read it right. He spit on my daughter. Hearing this from the other room, I turned into a roaring mother bear. I wagged my fat, fifty-one year old finger in his face and yelled,"Do NOT spit on my daughter!" Then I turned on my heels, looked at Miranda and we both burst out laughing. I mean, seriously, it had to be quite a sight. Short, squatty, middle-aged woman, still in her flannel gown berating the old guy who sat with his arms across his chest scowling that infamous Casas scowl. Maybe you had to be there.
So, I left before I said some of the other things that were boiling in my brain and that's when it happened. The old guy jumped up and decided to mow me down with his walker. In his haste for revenge, he caught his slipper in the back wheel and down he went with the walker landing on top of him.

I'm still pretty sure God wouldn't push an old guy down, even for spitting on a little girl. I cannot, however, speak for His angels.