This was written about St. Patrick’s Day 2009 – a memorable but odd one for sure:
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.” 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.
Note: Dad’s lungs are not quite so hearty anymore, but I am so incredibly proud of the work he’s put into quitting smoking in the past few months. Love you Pops! Keep taking care of yourself so I can keep writing jokes about you.