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It has been nearly six weeks since my dad had extensive surgery on his neck to relieve some pressure on his spine, and I am happy to say he’s doing well.

For as long as I can remember, my dad has had problems with his back and some numbness in his arms and hands.

For years, we thought a lot of it was arthritis pain but later found out it was degenerative disc disease and spinal compression.

He decided to have the surgery after his doctor told him if he didn’t, chances were good that he’d end up in a wheelchair.

With the impending arrival of a brand new granddaughter, he wanted to be able to pick her up when my brother and sister-in-law come to visit in a few weeks. He elected to have the surgery the last week of May.

Now that we’re about six weeks into an eight-week recovery period, he feels like a million bucks. The only pain he’s had has been surgery-related. The incision has healed nicely, and there’s almost no scarring. He has been moving around almost at his normal pace, taking care of his animals — two dogs and several chickens — and trying to drive.

All good, right? Wrong. He’s not supposed to lift anything heavier than five pounds. He is not supposed to drive, and he should be taking it easy.

Just last weekend, I caught him picking up the small dog, who weighs at least 12 pounds.

He was holding his head down for far too long while he shucking corn.

If that’s not enough, he snuck out of the house and drove himself to the store during my Sunday afternoon nap.

I think he’s trying to give me a heart attack. Perhaps it’s payback for the time he and my mom spent with me in the emergency room as a kid.

If this is the case, I deserve it. After all, I did cut my hand from my index finger to my wrist and pull out my stitches the same day when I was 4.

I also set my thumb on fire when I was 6. And God only knows how many severe sprains I had as a high school athlete.

But I was a kid. I bounced back quickly.

And I didn’t do any of that on purpose. I think he’s doing this stuff on purpose, telling me he doesn’t need a baby sitter.

We’ve got two more weeks of recovery and rehab to go. I’ve got to stop him from driving for at least another two weeks and keep him out of the chicken coop.

It’s only two more weeks. Just two more weeks and he can do whatever he wants. Pray that we don’t kill each other before then.

Contact Tiffany S. Jones at 373-7157 or tiffany.jones@news-record.com