The Slow-Cooked Sentence

And then heals

Rachael Conlin Levy

One day a doctor is propping open an artery hugging my dad’s heart. The next day my dad is laying on the grass playing with his youngest grandchild. He’s fine. A little tired, perhaps, but happy to dig in the dirt and toss dandelions at a one-year-old.

A few hours after surgery, we brought him Ruby Soup, a steaming borscht infused with garlic and prayers. While eating, he explained how a stent is like scaffolding. The tiny mesh tube was inserted through an artery in his groin, traveled to the blockage and then expanded so blood could once again flow freely.

“The doctor says I need to take statins to lower my cholesterol, but you know what the word on the street is? It’s fish oil,” he said. “Why statins when you can pack a can of sardines in your lunch everyday?”

That’s my dad. Flat on his back in the hospital and he’s questioning the official line. Doesn’t matter who’s line — cardiologist, cop or wife — he’s going to challenge it.

“The doctor told you not to lift any weight,” she said.

“I’m not going to disappoint an one-year-old,” he said and lifted his grandson into his arms.

“Well, don’t come to me when you starting bleeding out through your groin,” she snapped.

Sharp. Stupid. Sweet. Love in a few of its guises, in a few paragraphs.

One response to “And then heals”

  1. mamapease says:

    I’m glad that your Dad is alright!

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