Beneath the Tent's Hem

Gerry's Corner: So I decided not to show for the dedication of Ford Hall. When I made the decision to check myself into the "hospital" to "have some tests run" on me, I thought it would be the perfect revenge against Senator Chuck Schumer, Not-Betty's illegitimate child, who had been disguising himself as big spender Sanford Weill. Think about it: if I'd been there, it would have been my first public appearance in months and there would've been plenty of news coverage; the perfect storm for Schumer to try and ridicule me in public. But since I was absent from the event, ostensibly for being ill, everyone could say only nice things about me, overshadowing a probably-steaming-mad Schumer. That Chuck - he always thinks he's defeated me, only to find out that I've outsmarted him.



But to tell you the truth, part of me wishes I could have been there. Sure, the kids went and they said a bunch of people asked about us, but that's one thing, and it's quite another to actually be around all these people who think you can walk on water (and don't even ask you to prove it) and treat you accordingly. I mean, I'll see the DVD, I've been told, and I heard it was like weathering a tornado inside the tent, given how cold and windy it was (global warming? more like global freezing!), but I miss being among my people sometimes. I know we don't always understand each other, but they're all I've got.

So I was hanging out in my hospital bed, sneaking a secret martini, and one of the doctors came in - the kind of mean one, with the frowny eyebrows - and was all short with me. Our conversation went something like this:



ME: Good afternoon, Dr. Green.



DR: President Ford. How nice of you to grace us with your presence again.

ME: Well, you know how it is getting old, doctor. Aches and pains.

DR: Yeah...you know, you don't look that sick to me, sir. People who have to be in the hospital usually don't smoke pipes in their rooms.

ME: Hey, I'm just trying to keep myself going, stay strong.

DR: Why don't you just tell me what's wrong with you.

ME: Isn't that your job?

DR: Sure, I can diagnose you, but you have to tell me where it hurts.

ME: Oh, well - um, my elbow feels a little bony.

DR: Anything else?

ME: Yeah...my heart, I guess?

DR: What about your heart? Are you having a heart attack? Because we can open you up if you've got chest pains.

ME: No! I mean, my heart's just taking its usual beating...can you take a look at my elbow? My elbow's really the issue, I think.

DR: All right. [Dr. Green then takes out a hammer and smacks my elbow with it. I recoil in pain.]

ME: Ow! What the hell, Dr. Green?!

DR: Look, if you don't like my form of treatment, President Ford, then maybe you don't belong at this hospital.

ME: I-I can't believe you would say something like that to me, never mind hit me with a hammer. That seems kind of cold.

DR: Well, you've been checking yourself into the hospital a lot lately and everything's been fine with you, frankly. I think you're just using your age and status so you can hide from other obligations.

And you know what? Dr. Green was probably right. Maybe I don't need to use the hospital as an excuse so much. It just made me feel bad that he would neglect whatever he'd been taught about bedside manner to be so blunt.

As it turns out, I might get another chance to show up and redeem myself with my friends at the University of Michigan. Apparently, my son Mike proposed building another school on campus and calling it the Gerald R. Ford School of Being a Good Father and Husband.



I'll come to the dedication of that one for sure - wouldn't want anyone to think I'm an absentee father or husband, after all.

Anyway, back to my secret martini in the hospital room where I'm hiding.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry