Slice of life: Dad returns home

Dad was released from the hospital again today. The leg wounds for which he originally checked in have continued to heal, and he's graduated from Ace bandages to lower-maintenance compression socks. He walks and looks better than he did before. This time out, he's also free of the antibiotics that had provoked nausea and dizziness even before his previous discharge. He'll probably get to keep the toe that four weeks ago he was in danger of losing.

True to form, Dad had made friends with almost everybody on his hospital floor. Several nurses joked that they'll miss having a cop around to keep them in line. His roommates du jour, a retired Marine and an ex-Navy SEAL, both wished him well, as had the roommate discharged last week, a Mexican-American psychiatrist with a penchant for breaking into song. Rae, the omnicompetent redhead atop the pantheon of nurses, said "call me if you need anything," and Christine, his favorite physical therapist, said "keep in touch," although he probably won't, because he says he cares too much to call.

By way of celebration, we stopped at Coney Island Pizza on the way home. The restaurant's "memory wall" with a Celtic cross fashioned from scrap metal that had been part of one of the World Trade Center towers impressed him, as did the framed citation from the president's address to a joint session of Congress shortly after the 9-11 attacks, and the NYPD and NYFD patches on prominent display. Moved by the decor, Dad inquired of the Italian-American owner as to whether the pizza was any good, and their ensuing conversation was amusing.

"I'm six months outta Brooklyn," Mike said. "How do you think this pie is gonna taste? Molto bene!"

"We want a large cheese pie," Dad said, looking at the menu. "But what's with this Hawaiian pizza? They didn't even have that at home."

"He's from the Islands," I volunteered. "He's never had your pizza before."

"That Hawaiian pie I make with my eyes closed," said Mike. "You speak Italian?"

"Very little," said Dad.

"It's a disgrazia," said Mike, spinning fresh dough in his hands while he talked. "You follow? A disgrace."

"Like Mexican pizza," Dad opined.

"Right. When people ask for jalapenos, it drives me up the wall," said Mike. "But this pie, you'll like, I promise you that. Let me get you a slice while you wait."

"I'm just out of the hospital," said Dad.

"This will make you feel better," said Mike. "A little pizza; a little beer. Always works for me. It couldn't hoit, right?"

Dad laughed in agreement. Mike's business partner handed Dad a slice, and then went to hassle the delivery driver, a younger man named Vinny (of all the possible names for a pizza delivery driver to have, he just had to pick that one).

"Hey," said Mike, yelling at his partner. "I meant for you to cut that, so they could both have a taste." He looked at Dad and me. "You two are probably thinking, 'how cheap is this fat guy, anyway? I'm just kidding ya. I can call myself fat if I want, right? Everyone else does."

"I tell you what," said Mike, warming to his theme, "when I was a kid, my parents said they'd rather send me to medical school than feed me."

Dad could relate. After more chitchat, we collected the pizzas (one large and one small), and drove home talking about Broadway musicals. He'd never heard of Big River (1985), which is one of my favorites. I'd never heard of The Band Wagon (1953).

When the kids and the dog had bounded joyfully out the door at the site of my car pulling into the driveway, Dad greeted Cathleen, who's still in her boot cast, with "Hello, fellow invalid!"

And so begins another chapter on the Paragraph Farm.