Father's Day is over and I noticed a few Facebook posts that asked about a son's memory of a deceased dad and I thought of this one. I've told this story hundreds of times, but I never get tired of repeating it. Dad had a good sense of human nature and would sometimes use it to his advantage.
At the age of seven, I contracted rheumatic fever. I spent a horrible week at Rockford Memorial Hospital and was about to go home.
Dad and I were directed to a room marked "Cashier" where we sat and waited our turn to be called into the inner office. The door opened, a couple walked out, and the lady in a white nurse's uniform said, "You're next, Mr. Kitzmiller. Come on in," as she held the door for us.
"Please sit down," she said friendly enough. "Has the doctor explained what you need to do with James in the coming weeks to get him back on his feet?"
"Yes they have talked his mom and me."
"Good. I have some of the information written down for you and I have your bill. We require you to pay this upon checking James out."
"I'm a farmer. I have no insurance, but I pay my bills. You will have to wait until the crops come in and then I will make arrangements to pay the bill in full."
"I'm sorry, but we require payment before we can release James to you."
After a short pause, Dad said, "Well then, keep him." Dad got up, left me sitting in the inner office, and started walking quickly down the hall toward the exit.
I sat there looking at my shoes thinking about what it will be like being raised by a hospital.
Then the lady behind the desk stood up, knocking papers off of her desk as she ran after Dad. I heard her white shoes hit the grey tiles as she ran after Dad. "Mr. Kitzmiller! Mr Kitzmiller!" she shouted after my dad as he determinedly walked toward the door.
When he thought enough panic had been created, he turned around.
"You are welcome to take James home. We will have somebody get hold of you about the bill. Don't worry, arrangements will be made."
Walking back to get me, he assure the lady that he wasn't worried.
