Benny Jay: He Jumped Out Of Airplanes

I'm talking to my Dad on the phone and he doesn't sound good. He says he has a crick in his neck and it's very painful. He sounds tired. He's 83. I worry something's wrong.

So I drive to his house and I walk in as my Mom and he are finishing dinner. He doesn't look good, a little too pale.

He says he has to lay down. But he's too tired to move. He slumps in his chair. My mother stands at his side, to keep him from falling to the ground.

She gently pats his face and asks: "Are you all right?"

No response.

"Can you hear me?"

He starts to snore.

"Is he sleeping?" I ask.

"Who falls asleep like this?" she responds.

She calls 911. An ambulance and a fire truck show up, red lights flashing. Four paramedics walk into the house. They call out his name. He's still slumped over. They lift him from the kitchen chair, put him in a wheelchair, and strap him in. It scares me to see him helpless in that wheelchair. "He was in the paratroopers," I tell them. "He used to jump out of airplanes." They wheel him out of the house and into the ambulance....

By the time I get to the emergency room, he's sitting up in bed, wide awake. It turns out he drank two Scotches on top of taking a painkiller -- Vicodin -- and that's what knocked him out. My mother's taking the blame cause she gave him the pill.

Everyone -- especially me and my mom -- is relieved to see him strong. As different doctors and nurses enter the room, my parents repeat the story.

"It started with that crick in his neck," says my mom.

"It hurts," says my dad.

"He shouldn't have taken the painkiller with the Scotch," says my mom.

"Ever hear of anything like that?" I say.

"It's still painful," says my dad.

"You know what you do for a crick in the neck?" I say. "Take a tennis ball and rub it where it hurts."

The doctors and the nurses leave the room. It's just me and my parents.

"They're talking about you in the hallway," I tell them.

"No they're not," says my mother.

"Yes, they are. Hold on -- shh."

I put my head out of the curtain lining the room and pretend to be listening to a conversation in the hallway. I bring my head back into the room and say: "They're saying: `Who would take Vicodin and Scotch for a crick in the neck?'"

My dad ignores me. "The crick is painful," he says.

"Try the tennis ball. I'm telling you -- it loosens up the muscle...."

Another doctor comes in and my dad asks her what she would do for a crick in the neck. "Apply heat," she says.

"Heat's good," I say, after the doctor leaves. "But, the tennis ball's better."

My dad looks at me with exasperation and says, "Benny, stick that tennis ball up your...."

I can't tell you how good it is to get back to normal.