What do
John Milton,
Henry VIII,
Ben Franklin,
Issac Newton,
Sir John Falstaff,
and my Dad
have in common?
Well, for starters, they're all men, all larger-than-life personalities who have a penchant for the gourmand, Epicurean lifestyle. All (except for Newton) have had more than one wife. All look ridiculous in hats.
And all have gout.
When he told me, I almost snorted coffee out my nose.
"Gout?" I said. "Seriously? Geez, Dad, what are you gonna' do next winter, get scurvy?"
Apparently people still get gout in 2005, that disease of the decadent that indicates that the sufferer is far too well fed. Gout was the reason the royals couldn't run from the French Revolution, the reason Henry VIII became far less fun (well that and the beheading his wives thing) and the only thing that bothered Falstaff more than the pox. Given that it chiefly affected the wealthy and literate, gout is one of the most commonly-recorded diseases in human history.
And now my Dad's in such good company too.
My fun-lovin' papa is hereafter doomed to a life of sobriety unless he wants to suffer the foot-swelling consequences of his favourite fix, reduced to getting one of those canes with a hollow end to sneak snorts of rum when my stepmother's looking the other way. To spare himself the pain, he'll have to start eating tofu instead of steak, tempeh instead of ribs. And rice, the poor sod. Lots of rice. His choleric face will become melancholic as the new diet kicks in, and his rising black bile will have him waxing soliloquies all over the house. It'll snow and he'll stand on the porch dejectedly with his shovel, musing "Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, melt and resolve itself into a dew." The washing machine'll break down and it'll be "nothing can we call our own but death and that
small model of the barren earth which serves as paste and cover to our
bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories
of the death of kings." He'll start stabbing the wall hangings.
Of course, Dad could just disregard the cure, and pull a Falstaff, using his gimpy legs to advantage, calling his limp an old war wound and seeking sympathetic attention from pretty ladies in the supermarket: " 'Tis no matter if I do halt. I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will make use of anything. I will turn diseases to commodity."
Since the eldest, it is my job to take over the reins and help out wherever the need is greatest. My father's tippled honor shall not go unremembered, nor his penchant for beer and spirits dissolved into the ether of recollection and self-restraint. No, not on my watch. I've the family name to uphold.
Pint after pint, I'm pullin' for ya, Dad. From now on, I'm drinking for two.
If it's any comfort, my dad got gout, too--but he doesn't drink! For some reason, I'd always thought it was the result of a surfeit of protein.
Posted by: Anne | February 22, 2005 at 12:35