Last Thursday was the first day my father was allowed visitors after his surgery and because he is most honored and adored, by 7 pm, we had eleven people in his hospital room.

A doctor came in to see how he was feeling and laughed at the crowd of us hanging out around him, perched on window ledges and on chairs. Her name was Dr. Love and she completely personified her name. Also, she looked like Cynthia Nixon.

She asked my dad a set of questions about how he was feeling and what he was able to do post-surgery.

Dr. Love: Any nausea or vomiting?

Dad: NOPE.

Dr. Love: Headache?

Dad: NOPE.

Dr. Love: How’s the pain level?

Dad: NUTTIN’ HURTS.

Dr. Love: Are you able to urinate?

Dad: YES.

Dr. Love: (looking around the room at all of us watching, hesitating) Um, I’m going to ask you something and I’m not sure you want all these people to—

Dad: (proudly) I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GONNA SAY. IT’S OKAY. AND NO. I HAVE NOT POOPED.

Scene.