Today I got a call at the office and it was my mom. She was hysterical. I was trying to get her to tell me what was wrong, but every time I asked she got louder and harder to understand. Finally, after about 30 seconds I realized she wasn’t crying, she was laughing.

I collected my heart off of the ceiling and settled in to wait for her to get it together enough to tell me whatever it was she had to tell me. It turned out to be a story about my dad.

My dad was a badass in his day. He still is, but it’s that special, stubborn kind of badass that makes you wonder when you will get that phone call from relatives. The one where they tell you he was taken to the ER after putting a chain saw in his leg, but he’s missing now because he snuck away from everyone by pretending to go to the restroom. My dad wouldn’t go to the doctor voluntarily if his head fell off and rolled onto the freeway.

This is what happened today, the first time in history - and now the very last time as long as there is heat in his body - that my dad went to the doctor voluntarily.

Dad got up this morning and had a ring around his belly and back, 3 inches wide, that had erupted in giant blisters that itched.

Dad went to the Dr.

The Dr. asked “Were you wearing brand new underwear yesterday?”

Dad: “….yes.”

Doctor: “Did you wash them before you wore them?”

Dad: “No, they were right out of the package.”

Doctor: “The bands on underwear have formaldehyde. I’m giving you a shot of cortisone and some steroids. Go home and wash your underwear.”

As is often the case in our family, mom’s fit of insurmountable giggles was shorthand for “I finally got your father to go see a doctor and they sent him home to wash his underwear - fuck my life - he’ll never do that again, and despite that, this story is damn funny.”