This Father's Day...Fake A Heart Attack!

According to all who were involved, I was a nut job of a child. A handful, some might say. I had a motor that didn’t quit, I wouldn’t shut the fuck up, and I drove everyone around me bat shit crazy. Not much has changed. If it wasn’t for my jovial sense of humor (or laws), I might have been “accidently” smothered in my sleep or “misplaced” on the side of the road for another family to deal with.

When you know you’re a psychopath and your parents can’t do shit about it…

This little bundle of joy didn’t stop there. No, no. I grew up to be exactly who I was as a child, albeit a lot hairier and uglier. I am still a high energy opinionated loudmouth and if it wasn’t for my general proclivity towards having a good time I think I would be the most insufferable person on planet earth.

So just imagine having to be my father.

It couldn’t have been easy.

But I’m realizing now, as a father myself, that my dad had a plan.

His plan started out straight forward. My son will go to college, my son will then work for me, my son will then take over the family business. God laughs at our plans.

Little did my father know he would spend an absurd amount of money for me to go to college only to have me come out the other side as a bit of a partier. By “a bit of” I mean I fucking loved to party. To me there was nothing better than going out at night, drinking to blotto with my friends, and waking up the next morning with plans to do it all over again. As you might deduce, this was not good for our work relationship. In lieu of my first year review my dad yelled from his office one random day and said, “You know you’re not getting a raise, right?” I yelled back, “Yea,” too hungover to give a shit. His plans were going to hell. He had to take matters into his own hands.

What my father did was diabolical. It was something no one expected. It was something so out of left field that it even surprised my mother. He faked a heart issue.

I remember the exact day my dad came home after a run complaining that his chest was tight. I didn’t think any thing of it except that the old man was getting older. A little five-mile run had the guy’s body in bits. I laughed. I’d never get that old, I told myself. This is hilarious to think about now. My body creaks and moans like an old house. I’m only 34. He was in his early fifties.

He decided to get it “checked out”. What a crock of shit, I thought. You’re fine, I said. You’re my dad, you’ll always be fine...

After a bevy of tests, the doctors confirmed my expert opinion. He was in fact fine. But my dad wouldn’t give up that easily. He went to see “specialists” and “heart whisperers” and after a few months my dad’s plan finally came to fruition. The doctor said that he had an “aortic aneurysm” (a bulge in his aortic valve) and if he didn’t get it operated on within the next two years it could explode. For those who don’t know what an aortic aneurysm is, just know that if your aorta pops you have about 4 seconds to say goodbye to your loved ones because that’s all the time you’re gonna’ have before your donezo.

After the diagnosis he came home white as a clean sheet. He was distraught, he was scared, he didn’t want to die, and most of all he was worried about what would happen to his family and his employees if he did kick the bucket. My dad should go into acting after the performance he put on. I bought the whole thing - hook, line, and fucking sinker.

It was almost overnight that I got my act together. Instead of watching full seasons of Mad Men at work, I decided to actually do my job. I took on a new role as salesman. “If I go, you have to keep selling. You have to keep the business running,” he said to me. My dad was more convincing than Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood. He really took the whole method acting thing too far when it came to the day of his surgery. He actually got an insane dose of anesthesia, they actually cracked his chest open, they actually took his heart out of his body, they actually fixed his aorta, and he actually made it out alive. All this just to get his son to not act like a shithead? Talk about desperate measures. He even went as far as having a massive flute inserted in his neck with all his “medications” right before I went in to see him post-op. He looked like a bloated ghost. Him and his makeup artist deserved an Oscar.

His devious plan worked. I was scared straight. I decided to grow the hell up. To this day my dad keeps this charade going. I can hear him ticking like the clocks at the end of Hook (they “inserted” a “mechanical valve” to fix his aorta) which is a constant reminder that just because he’s my dad doesn’t mean his aorta won’t blow. It reminds me that I have to continue to be responsible, just in case

As a father now myself I’ve been wondering how I can use my dad’s sick and twisted plan to my own benefit. I have a two-year-old that is just like me. She’s insane. When she’s on a roll there is no stopping her. She barely listens to her father (her mother is another story) and I love it. But sometimes even I need a break. And when I do, I grab my chest. I fall to the floor. I let my tongue hang out like a tipped cow. I stare straight into the air and try to slow my breathing. Even if she’s in the middle of riding our dog like a pony or throwing a vase filled with flowers or spilling her mac and cheese on the floor on purpose, she will stop. She will make sure that her father is okay. She’ll hug me and kiss me and then start laughing, just like I did when my father faked his heart issue. It’ll be the best 30 seconds of the day. So I have to tip my cap to my dad on this Father’s Day. It was a great plan. Pretend you’re gonna die to get your son to grow the hell up. I’ve used the same scheme to get a few minutes break in my household. Game recognize game.

I’d urge all the fathers out there to use this tactic. Scare the living daylights out of your kids. Make them remember how fucked they would be without you. If you’re a shitty father this method won’t work. If you’re a shitty father, as you fall to your knees grabbing your chest, faking your heart attack, your kid might be cheering. You might even catch them saying a prayer, begging the big guy to take you. If you’re really terrible you’ll see them clapping their hands and fist bumping their siblings knowing you are seconds away from being gone. But for the good ones, like my dad, this method is tried and true. Godspeed, good dads. Godspeed.

P.S. - I’ve seen my dad’s hospital records. This is a conspiracy bigger than 9/11 being an inside job. Even the doctors forged the papers saying he did in fact have an “aortic aneurysm” and he did in fact have “surgery”. 

P.P.S - Hug your dad if he’s a good one. Don’t make him fake a fucking heart attack (or have a real one).

P.P.P.S. - Shoutout to all the moms who did the work to make us dads… (Fellas, you might get lucky this Father’s Day if you drop this line on your baby momma.)