I have to go to the hospital.
And for the first time, I'm not going for me. This time? It's for my Dad.
He's having surgery tomorrow. It's supposedly nothing too serious. He's having his tonsils out. Yes. You read that right. My 57-year-old father is having his tonsils out. A procedure that a lot of little kids have done.
Apparently my Dad's tonsils have been bothering him for a couple of months. Not that he told anyone about it. That is until he went to the doctor about a month ago, his first visit to the doctor in almost a decade by the way. My Dad's not a big fan of doctors, can you tell? Thankfully he's pretty healthy.
Anyway, his doctor sent him to a specialist, ironically the same ear, nose and throat doctor that sliced my neck open in May 2007. The specialist's verdict? His tonsils were so inflamed and infected that he was pretty sure they'd never go back to normal. So out they come.
At first Dad wasn't too worried. After all, my nephew just had his out this spring and "he bounced right back," Dad said. Yes. But my nephew's 3. Dad's 57. There's a bit of an age difference there and I'm guessing a there's going to be a bit of a difference in recovery time.
The past week or so, as Dad's heard all these horror stories about how long it takes an adult to recover after having their tonsils out, I've seen him get a bit more nervous. And it's rubbed off on me.
I trust his doctor (after all, he sliced my neck open and I lived to tell about it). I know he's going to be at a good facility and the surgery really is pretty routine. But still. He's my Dad. I worry.
So tomorrow I'm working a half-day. I'll be sitting in a courtroom in the morning, while Dad's lying on an operating table and my brother's keeping my Mom company in the waiting room. Then I'll head north to be with my family the rest of the day.