I got my St. Patrick’s kicks in a little early this year, choosing to make bad decisions on a Saturday rather than a Tuesday. Does that make it a good decision? Call it a wash. Anyway, my weekend was great, aside from the parts where I felt like dying. The other parts were too much fun, and I would do those parts again (which pretty much means I’ll do the “feel like dying” parts again, too).
The actual St. Patrick’s day was going to be low-key, but ended up pretty bizarre. First of all, there were drunk nuns before noon. Always entertaining. Then there was a phone call from my mom, letting me know my dad was in the hospital because of a work accident (found a chlorine gas leak with his face), but he didn’t want me to come home because I should “stay there and make money.” I never listen to my dad; he never makes sense. So instead, I spent about two and a half hours in the ICU, watching my pops take in oxygen and watch NCIS. It was exactly like hanging out with my dad at home, except with a few extra tubes and wires.
Around seven, the doctor checked dad’s O2 levels and sent us all home, telling him not to smoke for a few days because it would irritate the acid in his lungs. The acid in his lungs. I take that to mean “don’t smoke because IT WILL MAKE YOU BLOW UP,” and dad takes it to mean “Gonna smoke anyway, because I like a challenge.” And he will, and he’ll be fine, because despite what he does to himself, he’s sort of indestructible. I’m not sure how he even has lungs anymore, but according to the doctor and some X-rays, they are just fine. My dad: surviving things he shouldn’t for half a century.
And that’s how I ended my St. Patrick’s day: watching my dad watch NCIS (at home this time) and thinking not about my Irish ancestors, but my Norwegian ones, and wondering if I might inherit some of their luck. And their ridiculously hearty lungs.