Not Quite Extending The Olive Branch, But More Like Blowing A Blade Of Grass Off His Forearm In My General Direction

Farmer H had a bit of minor surgery on Thursday. It was outpatient surgery, the nature of which I'm not sure he wants revealed, at a hospital 30 miles up the highway. The Pony drove him, since I don't do highways. They left at 4:45 a.m. to check in at 5:30 for the 7:00 surgery.  They returned sometime between 10:00 and 11:00. I'm not sure, because I was snoozing. It looked like they'd stopped for Casey's donuts, and a painkiller prescription.

Anyhoo... while not a serious surgery, Farmer H still had a general anesthesia. He was snoozing in the recliner when I walked by, so I didn't disturb him. Just made sure his chest was going up and down, since his caretaker to whom he'd been released was in his room with the door closed.

When The Pony came out to chat with me in the kitchen, it awoke Farmer H. I asked if he was okay. He was. If he needed anything. He did not. He was a bit cranky. I'm sure he was tired from getting up at 4:00 for a shower. And maybe in pain, though he said he was not. So I tried to be understanding when his usual attitude showed itself.

"Do you want something to drink?"

"No. I'm trying not to drink. I don't want to get up for the bathroom."

"That's not good for you. You're probably dehydrated anyway. And with the painkillers, you need water."

"I'm good."

"So I guess you'll just hang around in the house the rest of the day?" [It was 1:30 by then. The most logical thing after a surgery under anesthetic, I think, would be to remain at home, and rest up.]

"No. I might go do something. I need to do laundry."

"I don't think you should be going anywhere today. I'm getting in the shower. Do you want me to bring you Burger King when I come home?"

"I'll take a burger. But none of that wet stuff on it."

"He means no mayo or ketchup, Mom."

"Okay. I hope they get it right, but I'll order three burgers all different. I should be home by 3:30."

So I got in the shower. When I got out, I carried an armload of socks and underwear out. Farmer H has always done his laundry on Sunday evening, or occasional other evenings. I throw mine in on weekdays, as I go to town, and put them in the dryer when I get back. As I walked behind Farmer H, I said:

"Taking those pain pills, you need fiber. You always complain for two weeks that you can't poop. Do you maybe want some Beanie Weenies with your burger? Since you didn't want fries? Or I could bring them to you now, before I leave."

"I don't want no Beanie Weenies!"

"Okay. I might make a salad tonight. Do you want one?"

"I don't want no salad!"

"All right. I just thought it might help you be able to poop, so you don't have to ask the doctor for something like last time."

"You always want me to do what YOU want me to do!"

"I don't care what you do. I was only offering to help you. Never mind. You're not planning to do laundry while I'm gone, are you?"

"YES! You heard me tell you I was doing my laundry! You stood right there!"

"You didn't actually say you were doing it. You usually do it at night, and fold it while you're watching your gator man shows, or the game wardens, or the knife makers."

"I told you I was doing it!"

"Okay. I'll put mine back."

"Go ahead! That's what you want to do! Do yours now!"

"No. I'm putting it back. You don't want me to."

"You're always trying to make people do things your way!"

"Again. Just trying to help. Don't worry. I won't help you any more. I'm going to town."

"There you go, mumbling about me! You always want to say how much you do for me! BLAH BLAH BLAH."

I didn't hear the last of it, because I was out on the porch, on the way to town. When I got home with the food, I told The Pony in the garage, out of earshot:

"You can take your dad his burger if you want. If I do it, he'll say I'm forcing him to eat it right then because that's what I want him to do."

So The Pony took it, and offered to get a plate, and chips and a drink, but Farmer H only wanted the burger on a plate. Which he ate. I busied myself in the kitchen, seasoning my magical elixir with cherry powder and lime powder, and filling two bubba cups with ice. From the living room, I heard:

"I had a headache before."

Nothing requiring a response, nor addressed to me. So I didn't respond. Then I heard:

"That burger was good."

Again. Nothing requiring input from me. The Pony was sitting on the couch. Maybe they were having a conversation. When my stuff was ready, with a ramekin of ketchup on the tray with burger and fries, I walked through the living room to change clothes.

"Thank you for bringing me the burger."

 

"You're welcome."

I guess that's what he'd been leading up to. Not exactly an "I'm sorry for being so hateful when you were only trying to help." But a step in the right direction. 

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.