My Dad The Wingman

Dec 11, 2015
10 min read

A wingman should be smooth, charming, and well timed. But apparently, those rules don't apply to my dad.

After my little stint with Magic Mike ended, I decided it was time to take a quick break from dating. This ended up being perfectly timed too, because just after the phone call to end all phone calls, I came down with **dramatic music** THE WORST COLD EVER.

It was like the perfect cocktail of ick. Think no voice, constant sinus pressure, itchy eyes, and a nasty relentless cough. No fever though, so I had that going for me. At this point, most people would take a day or two off of work, rest up, drink plenty of fluids, and get cozy with some binge watching, right?

Nope.

For teachers, it’s actually more work to be out for a day than it is to just go in and power through it. And because I’m tough (read: a normal human with a normal immune system), I worked.

Jump forward two weeks.

I’m introducing a lesson to my class and on comes a little coughing fit. No big deal, I’m a champ, I can handle it, and after a few weeks of this, my kids are used to it. One offers me a cough drop while the others quietly wait for me to be done, and then they politely ask if I’m ok, which obviously I am, and I reassure them that no, of course I’m not contagious. (Truthfully, I was probably contaminating all those little cherubs with The Black Lung, or whatever the hell I had.) But this coughing fit was a little fuller than the others. The damn thing shook the very depths of my soul. And then, oh hey, ouch, that kind of hurts.

“Ms. Danna? Do you want us to get the nurse?” “What? No, of course not. Guys, I’m fine.” “Why are you clutching your ribs?”

Apparently, I was. Hmm.

“No, no, guys, I’m fine, really. It’s just a lot of coughing.” “Yeah, we know. Maybe you should take the day off tomorrow.” Mmm hmm. I’m on to you. “Next time you come to class, I’m going to tell you I don’t want you here tomorrow, and you tell me how you like it.” That was the end of that conversation. A little guilt goes a long way with 9th graders.

By the end of the day, I couldn’t walk down the hallway without holding the wall. What started out as a little pang in my ribs ended up leaving me unable to take a deep breath or turn from side to side. And forget coughing. One of my colleagues found me clutching the wall and pretty much had to drag me down to the main office to get me sent home, while I protested, “I’m fine!” the whole way.

Who, me? Stubborn??

It was an uncomfortable drive, for sure, but you’d think once I was back home it was time for blankets, liquids, and Netflix, right?

Wrong again.

Living with your parents certainly has its joys, but facing The Inquisition when you walk in the door early from work is not one of them. Meet my dad. No “hello”, not even “how was your day?” I walk in the door, he looks at the clock, and his face drops.

“Why are you home so early? Did you get fired?” “No, Dad. They sent me home because I’m sick.” “They sent you home? And you’re sure you’re not fired?” “Still not fired, Dad. The nurse sent me home.” “Are you really sick, or are you trying to avoid someone at work?” “DAD!-” Well, that was enough to set off a coughing attack and I’m talking the whole works; deep inhales, hacking coughs, me doubled over and holding my ribs.

“Oh my goodness, Mick, are you sick?” “No Dad, I got fired.” Seeing he clearly thought I was serious, “I’M KIDDING. Yes, I am sick. I need to rest.” “That’s some cough.” “Go hard or go home. I guess I did both.”

It was a bit difficult to get changed as my range of motion was quickly shriveling. I opted for yoga pants, a cotton tank, and an oversized sweatshirt. No bra, I didn’t want to put any added pressure on my ribs. Plus, the tank was tight fitting, so that’s close enough to a bra, right? Yes, rest was on its way. I grabbed my pillows and had all intentions of snuggling up on the couch. Just a little rest and I’d be fine.

Blocking the way stood my dad, holding his stethoscope and his blood pressure monitor. That’s right, the man who got queasy in the waiting room each time before my mom gave birth, who passed out when he stepped on a nail, who couldn’t get my mom a Band-Aid when she cut her finger with a knife because he was afraid if he moved he’d pass out, yes, this man is an EMT. How? I’m still not sure, but ever since they gave him an emergency kit, everything requires blood pressure monitoring. I mean, the man uses his stethoscope to hear if there are raccoons in the wall. No, seriously.

“Dad, I’m fine.” “If you are sick enough to be sent home from work you are not fine. Now, let me take your blood pressure.”

No surprise here, it was normal. And I was so close to the TV. So close! And then, the coughing. I found that it hurt less if I was sitting and if I was crunched over. There was less expanding and contracting of my ribs when I did that. See, problem solved… kind of. But, woo wee did it hurt!

Then, I asked a stupid question. Hoping my dad would think about this from his medical experience and not from his over-panicky dad brain, I innocently inquired, “Can you crack a rib from coughing too hard?”

That was all he needed to hear to start his half-hour long speech about why I should have gotten a flu shot and all the possible outcomes that could come from this cough and how I could probably die from most of them. He’s legitimately worse than looking up symptoms on the internet. Everything was going to kill me. But right now, if he didn’t let me make my way over to that damn couch, I was going to wrap that stethoscope around his neck and kill him!

“I just need to rest and I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, but just one question.” I knew a guilt trip was coming next, after all, I did learn from the best. “Yes, Dad?” “When you die, do you want to be buried or cremated?” “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dad!” “It’s a perfectly valid question! I just want to make sure to honor your wishes, since you won’t take care of your health.”

At this point, I wish they had just fired me because that conversation would’ve been way easier.

“And what exactly would you like me to do right this second? It’s a cold. It may be The Worst Cold Ever, but it’s a cold. I’ll call the doctor tomorrow, you know, if I’m not dead by then.” I should really be ordained the Queen of Things Not to Say to Your Panicky Dad because he grabbed his jacket and was out the door muttering something about hoping Denise was working the ER because she’ll put me right through. Some people’s dads know high powered lawyers or movie producers. Mine has the in at the ER.

Denise was not at the front desk. Instead there sat a cranky woman named Carol who was not amused by me. She asked me what was wrong, I told her my symptoms, and since “I’m fine” was not working out for me, I whispered, “I think it’s consumption!”

Let me spare you the trouble of finding this out for yourself; ER nurses do not find archaic medical jokes very funny. She reached behind her and handed me a facemask saying, “You need to wear this until we know what you have.”

Seriously, Carol? Seriously, Michele.

Between the face mask and my newly chopped Zoey Deschanel bangs, I looked like Shredder.

They checked my blood pressure, my urine, my glands, and my eyeballs, and then gave me an X-ray, a blood test, a strep test, the LSAT, GMAT, GRE, and MCAT. By the time I got back to my exam bed to wait for the doctor, I was exhausted. The cough had totally worn me out and The Worst Cold Ever was kicking my butt. Huddled over my knees on the hospital bed, trying to alleviate some of the pain in my side, I heard the curtain slide open.

Shonda Rhimes must have sent this doctor to me. Dark wavy hair, piercing light brown eyes, dimples. Hello, Doctah! I sat straight up, a mistake for sure, as I immediately squeaked in pain, but of course tried to conceal it so I’d seem tough and cool.

Tough and cool isn’t easy to pull off when you’re sporting stretchy pants, a sweater that could house a small family, a Shredder mask, thick forehead fringe, and a sweet cough, all while being accompanied by your dad. It was at this moment I became quite aware that I was still wearing no bra. Awesome.

“You don’t have to wear the mask,” smiled Dr. Hot.

Ooooo, you did me dirty, Carol!

I whipped that thing off with the quickness and he went over my chart asking me a few additional questions about my symptoms. Then, he left to go see if my test results were ready.

“Michele,” started my dad. I prepared myself for what was sure to be a long list of possible illnesses he’d looked up since we’d been in the ER, most of which probably only existed on The Oregon Trail.

“Yes, Dad.” “That doctor is really good looking, you know it?”

WHAT?!

“Yeah, I guess, why?” “I’m gonna set you up.” “OH NO YOU ARE NOT.” “Oh yes, I am! I’ll be your wingman!” This is when I knew I was in trouble. When my dad is up to something, his lips start to disappear inward in a kind of Grinch sort of way. Right now, his lips were nowhere to be seen.

“Dad, seriously. Please don’t.” “But did you see his name? He’s Italian!” “Such a rarity, Dad, since we live in friggin’ North Jersey!”

Cue a coughing fit, and just in time for Dr. Hot to reenter.

“Whoa, that really is a pretty nasty cough, huh?” I nodded my head in between deep painful inhales. He looked at me with warm eyes as my breathing settled back to normal. Maybe there was a chance for love to be found among a concerned doctor and a patient who desperately need his care… and slightly resembled a cartoon villain.

“So,” my dad chimed in to burst the dreamy moment. Good wingman, my ass. “How’d an Italian doctor like you come to work at a place like this?”

Um, I don’t know, Dad. Medical school maybe? Like the rest of the doctors! What is this? The EMT version of “come here often”?! I really hope he was smoother than this when he met my mother. I had questions for her when I got home.

Dr. Hot took it in stride after a small chuckle and a quick hand through his hair. If I could just get my dad out of the room for a hot second I might be able turn on a little sickly charm, maybe have Dr. Hot examine my ribs a little closer, or maybe I’d have to take off my shirt so he could check my breathing. No, I was still wearing no bra, that would be too far… or would it? It would happen in Shondaland.

He told us where he went to school and, of course, he graduated from my high school’s biggest sports rival. My dad quickly jumped on this, bragging about my high school soccer accomplishments, since, you know, I’ve accomplished nothing noteworthy since then, apparently.

“A soccer player?” asked Dr. Hot. “My younger sister played too. She’s about your age. Your chart said 29, right?” Right you are, Dr. Hot! And look who is remembering my stats… which, of course, is part of your job.

It turns out we were familiar with some of the same people and we exchanged some friendly competitive – and very old – trash talk. I gently reminded him that my team used to kick his sister’s team’s ass every time we played them, and he was quick to point out that his football team had never lost to ours.

Was this really working? Was my dad actually the best wingman of all time? Was my natural charm the perfect complement to my sickly status?

Of course not. My dad name-dropped some of the doctors he knew and continued to press him about where he grew up and where he lives now. Dr. Hot was polite in his answers, but my dad neglected to pay attention to the finer details when we were chatting. I, however, as a savvy single lady, did not. Dr. Hot had a Mrs. Hot somewhere. And I knew this because while he was not wearing a ring, he was sporting a slight indentation on his left ring finger, indicating that he, in fact, did often wear a ring. Sure, he could have been recently divorced or separated, but there are nice guy vibes and there are flirty vibes and, regardless of the 800 pound gorilla Dad in the room, these were nice guy vibes.

Dr. Hot-And-Unavailable confirmed that I did have The Worst Cold Ever and gave me a vicious line up of antibiotics, anti-cough meds, nasal sprays, and inhalers. He guided me on how to care for my bruised, not broken, ribs, and told me that I could not go to work for the rest of the week. This horrified my dad. Calm down, it’s already Wednesday. A few signatures later and we were on our merry way. My dad tried to slip out the EMT exit that clearly read NO PATIENTS, but I insisted we use the regular visitors door. We split ways, but guess whose VIP release DID NOT get him back to the car first? Mmm hmm. I’m sure he got an earful from Cranky Carol. A real smooth operator my dad is.

Back home and rifling through my new medications, I listened to my dad brag about his wingman skills to my mom and how impressed he was by the doctor’s manners.

“I really think they could have a good thing going, you know it?” Mom nodded her head in agreement, then gave me an all knowing sideways glance. We let my dad continue.

“You should’ve seen it. I asked the perfect questions. Michele didn’t want me to say anything, but after today, I think you should start taking me out to bars with you. I’ll set you up with all kinds of guys! Doctors, lawyers, finance dudes-”

“Married guys.”

This stopped my dad mid-dude. He blinked at me with the look of a lost child. “Dr. Hot is married, Dad.” “No- no way. I know men, believe me,” he boasted and scoffed, trying to maintain his Alpha status in the house. A quick Google search revealed Dr. Hot and Mrs. Hot’s wedding pictures, and my dad’s face went completely blank.

“You ass!” my mom contributed eloquently to the conversation. “I wouldn’t take him anywhere, except to a home! Come on, Mick, let’s go watch Modern Family. ASS.” Together we laughed as we left my dad completely bewildered in the kitchen.

FINALLY getting to settle into the couch, I was glad to be able to rest, since that was really all I needed and I’d be fine. Well, that and a bunch of drugs. A few moments of quiet peace, and then, from the kitchen -

“I’m a great wingman, trust me! I’ll find you a great dude! I know lots of men, believe me!”

My mom and I are dying in silence on the couch but don’t respond to the kitchen.

“You know? …Mick? You know?”