Papa has drawn the line.

“I will NOT go the doctors without you. I will NOT go with that fat Puerto Rican, who can’t even speak.”

He does not mean the insult. He is angry and frightened and looking to hurt people. And to shock me into a fight.

I remain calm. After all, I am the adult here. With all my wits about me. At least I think I am.

“Bah fangul, why do I have to go. I am a man, I can say NO!” His inflection goes up in register and timber on the word no.

His fingers pinched together, he stabs his hand forward with each word “Why am I being treated like an old decrepit fool, like a child.”

“Well, Papa, you are acting like a child. The doctor needs to see your leg today, to see how it’s healing.”

“Why, papa (his term of endearment for me), I will go in and see a stupid nurse, who knows nothing, and they’ll look, mmm, ahhh, yes, a fat old broken leg, mah, cut it off!”

His breath is heaving in his chest now.

“The nurse, the Marcia, she comes here to me at my house. I don’t need to go anywhere.”

“Papa, you can go in to the doctors with Noni, or you can go in by ambulance.”

“I am NOT going in. Bah.”

“Ok, I’ll call the ambulance to take you.” I say with what I think is a tone of confidence and finality. I hope calling his bluff works.

“You do what you want. I’m not going.” He swivels to face his computer. He is supposed to be reclined with his leg up. I hesitate to mention this. I only have the strength for one argument this morning.

I leave the room. His nurse Noni is standing in our hallway. She gives me a look. I shrug my shoulders and walk downstairs.

Calling Dr. Thomas, I make Papa’s excuses. But Dr. Thomas, an old Italian woman herself, is just as ‘testa dura’. She says he must come in. Do whatever I have to do, but I must bring him in.

I cannot miss another day of work over this. It’s my teenagers all over again.

I go back to his room and announce the ambulance will be there at 10:30. My eyes dart to the corner of the room at the lie – a dead giveaway.

“Fine. I am not going. You waste your time.”

“It will cost you $165 whether you get in it yourself, or they strap you in.” I’m so far out on a limb now. I hope he folds.

He spins back toward me. “I’m not paying for it!”

“Fine, I will pay then, Papa.”

“Why, so you can win this argument? What is wrong with you, something is very wrong with you, the way you were raised. You cannot make people do things they have no intention of doing.”

I feel like a tyrant. “Papa, the doctor insists, I’m just doing what she says.”

“I WILL NOT GO, THAT IS FINAL!” He ends with a flourish of both his hands in the air and spins in his second hand office chair, back to his computer screen starting at it intently, as if something in there will rescue him, something he lost.

“Not even my wife treats me like this,” he mumbles. “Kick me out if you want, I will go back and live with my mother.”

I don’t bother reminding him that he has neither a wife nor a mother.

Noni steps in. She tries to reason with him that I only want to be certain he is ok. He ignores her.

“Ok, ” I get up off the bed ” I’ll go wait for the ambulance.”

He slowly turns in his chair….

“Fine, I will go with her.” He jerks his head to the kind and patient Noni.

Later that day, on my return from work, Papa is all smiles and light. He inquires as to my day. I apologize for us having ‘words’ this morning. He truly looks perplexed. “What words?”