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It’s been a rough couple of weeks.

Papa Smurf (my father) has had a few scary episodes. He’s been feeling dizzy and faint over the last few months, tumbled a few times and was generally not himself. Although, I must say, these occurrences did little to dissuade him from leading his Wesley Team on Trivia Night or joining his Wesley Breakfast Club for waffles, or going out on the town for drinks and a hearty meal with his lady friend.

Last week, he was en route to his favorite hot spot, Fox Hill (The Hill), when he felt woozy while driving. He pulled over and had his friend get into the driver’s seat.

Anyone else would have been driven home.

My father?

Hell. No.

His Manhattan awaited him on the bar at The Hill. They carried on. While sitting at the bar, he felt faint again, and what followed is where we are at this moment: sitting in his hospital room, penning this column.

He knows I’m writing about him, and he wants me to tell you this: “Tell everyone that I’m 91 years old, and I was at a bar with my girlfriend when I felt dizzy. And I never got to finish my drink.” For some reason, he felt that caveat was of the utmost importance, readers.

It was finally determined, after his second fall, that his heart rate skyrocketed into the cardio-stratosphere, and he needed a procedure to short circuit the issue. After many false starts and epic storytelling (his) within the busy streets of the ER village, we leapt higher to cross the moat and enter the castle of the heart hospital.

And here he lies, like the king he is. And apparently, the nurses are his princesses. (He tells me I’m the court jester. Not meant as a compliment, FYI).

Nursing is the most noble of professions. It truly is. My daughter is an RN, and I know that, at times, behind the scenes it’s a poop show. There’s copious amounts of hiney-wiping and family mollification, taking and giving orders and general mayhem-wrangling.

I realize these saints-in-scrubs are stretched to their breaking point during their endless shifts and for the most part, his nurses were angels. There was one, though, who was a tad Nurse Ratchedy; a bit old school and corporal-esque.

I realize that personality type may get the job done, but it just doesn’t do much to comfort a frightened 91-year-old patient about to have heart surgery. I, myself, don’t do well with that particular tone, either. Although it did transport me back to the days of second grade religious education classes with Sister Lea, when she used that exact tenor to reprimand me after I forgot the Act of Contrition — and wet my pants.

I hope my father doesn’t wet his pants. Nurse Ratched, please lighten up a touch.

Along with the nurse, who kind of terrified us both, this heart re-routing is scary stuff, even for my robust father, who is a fourth degree black belt. It sure does make you realize what you have in front of you and what can be taken away like that (snapping my fingers).

It’s sobering. Now I feel guilty for making fun of his wraparound sunglasses and bright gold sports jacket.

I should be a better daughter, and a better person in general, but I’m concentrating on the daughter part for now.

This king needs a court jester with a better disposition and one who lets his tall tales grow taller, without interruption. I will really let the new beat in his heart tell the story from now on. I promise to be better, dad. Now finish your drink.

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Maria Jiunta Heck

Life Deconstructed

Maria Jiunta Heck, of West Pittston, is a mother of three and a business owner who lives to dissect the minutiae of life. Send Maria an email at [email protected].