Viele übersetzte Beispielsätze mit "like father like son" – Deutsch-Englisch Wörterbuch und Suchmaschine für Millionen von Deutsch-Übersetzungen. Like father like son. German translation: Deutsch Der Apfel fällt nicht weit vom Stamm. Deutsch ganz der Vater/ganz die Mutter. Übersetzung für 'Like father, like son' im kostenlosen Englisch-Deutsch Wörterbuch und viele weitere Deutsch-Übersetzungen.
Like Father, Like SonLernen Sie die Übersetzung für 'like father, like son' in LEOs Englisch ⇔ Deutsch Wörterbuch. Mit Flexionstabellen der verschiedenen Fälle und Zeiten. Übersetzung im Kontext von „Like father, like son“ in Englisch-Deutsch von Reverso Context: Like father, like son, as the British say. Übersetzung für 'Like father, like son' im kostenlosen Englisch-Deutsch Wörterbuch und viele weitere Deutsch-Übersetzungen.
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Worst symptoms were a narrower, faster, and farther flowing stream when I urinated, blood in the underwear, and some discomfort while urinating that had been present as long as I could remember — and unnoticed until pointed out.
But Mom knew these things rarely traveled alone. More tests. Then they found something: A blockage of the flow of urine from my kidneys to bladder, which had already damaged some of my left kidney.
A couple of procedures, a few surgeries, some scars and tubes, and a lot of pain later, and I was fine. Sort of. Being the center of attention had really grown on me.
Mom had fawned over me, and Dad seemed to have approved of the way she cared for me. He showed some concern himself. Things got better the more uncomfortable I got.
First they sent me home with a catheter, a tube running from my bladder to a bag strapped to my leg. The doctors figured that if they could carry the flow of urine past the problem, it would clear things enough for my body to correct the problem itself.
Being an extremely active kid with a tube sliding around in my penis, clinging to the inside of your bladder by a ball that was inflated once in there was miserable at times.
But I was in heaven because I was special and cared for without condition. I had a love-hate relationship with the whole process of fixing my plumbing.
No matter how excruciating the previous experience was with the last treatment or surgery, I always looked forward to the next.
Once under the knife, needle, or tube, reality, fear, and dread would set in, but a shot of Demerol always took care of my greatest terror — after they held me down and stuck me.
From the time I found blood in my underwear to the correction of my congenital deformity three surgeries and countless x-rays, procedures, and catheters later , Mom was there.
For every needle, tube, catheter, cut, wait, touch, and recovery, she was there. She spent many a night in a chair next to my bed, long after I was clear of surgery and out of danger.
This worked fine for Dad because it kept her out of his hair and allowed him to rationalize his own absence.
He showed up at the hospital occasionally, but it was usually in time to make me eat my food, no matter how nauseous it made me.
But he was there just for me, and he and Mom were together. To me, that they were in the same room without any other people, and with a common purpose — helping me — looked like we were a family again, like everything might be okay.
He first described my infirmity and pain as punishment for my willfulness. Then, when that seemed harsh, and probably a little damaging to my young psyche, Dad declared that my trials were necessary for my growth as a leader.
Finally, when the efforts of the best doctors money can buy prove successful, Dad took credit for my healing by saying that I had learned enough.
I was around twelve the first time I took more than enough Quaaludes to kill me. I waited a minute and, having felt nothing, downed a couple more.
Nothing happened in the next few breaths so upped my dosage to six. In this fashion, I brought the total to fourteen in short order before examining the bottle, which instructed the user to take one capsule thirty minutes before bedtime.
Well, I figured from this discovery that I might be stretching things a bit. So, still quite sober, I walked back to the temple, eased my way back inside, risked the exposure of crossing the auditorium, and slipped up behind Mom where she sat behind Dad on the small, carpeted, plywood platform we called The Stage, and whispered in her ear as Dad droned on,.
Why do you ask, Honey? That, combined with her coping-disconnectedness at meetings and my tendency toward eccentric curiosity, blinded her to the red flags of the moment.
Just curious. My only exposure to overdose was through stories of dead heroin addicts, so to me overdose meant death.
Of course, all that did was to speed up the progress of the poison and isolate me from any assistance.
My run to the house was an attempt to escape the latter. Fortunately, my brother, Tim decided to play a little hooky too. When he came through the front door, I was standing at the base of the stairs, three strides in front of him.
I did not move. I think I hoped that if I stopped, so too would the world and the sleep death that was creeping up on me. That was probably the only smart thing I did that night.
Mom came barging in the door moments later. Never in my life had I been more relieved to see someone. When she entered, she was already in emergency-nurse-mode.
I was sure that if anyone could save me, it would be she. I felt fine. Maybe I had taken something else. Maybe the bottles were marked wrong.
I was the kid who could open the door in a moving car and not fall out, even though Mom was certain that I would. I could catch snakes and alligator lizards and not get bitten despite — or in spite of — many warnings to the contrary.
I could walk and run on the roof and not fall through, and then defy gravity further by running full tilt off its edge, hit, roll, and run.
They were limited, fragile creatures. I could run, tightrope, and leave spikes on the railroad tracks and never come close to being hit or causing a derailing.
And yet they warned with great authority. I could run barefoot everywhere and never step on glass. It was time to listen, but not without some resistance.
She strode up to me, her eyes on mine the entire way. She still had to bend a bit to bring her five-feet-seven-inches down to my level as she placed her hands firmly on my shoulders, while barking orders to my brothers who had scrambled in behind her.
I gave her two quick drops of my chin. I turned my eyes up at her. Mom sat me at the side of the dining table and went to work.
In what seemed like no time at all — by that time I could very well have been losing my grip on time and space — Mom returned with a pot of lukewarm coffee and a bottle of syrup of ipecac, made for the express purpose of emptying the stomach.
She spooned some ipecac into me, followed by her finger and had me vomiting in no time. There were still a couple of capsules in what came up.
You got me pouring it in and outta me. I could not see the point. Mom moved the pot closer to my pursed lips. Everything hummed and reverberated.
Light felt more like sound and sound was ooze. I tried to talk without a thing to say. What came out of my mouth matched what I was hearing.
I could only make an O with my mouth, expanding and contracting at best. My tongue was a free and separate being. I remember bits of getting slapped and hollered at in the car.
I remember a propped up exchange with a doctor at Ukiah General Hospital, eight miles from where my trip to la la had begun. He talked; I babbled and lurched.
I remember falling, but not hitting. I entered blackness, then it entered me. In my very next instant my eyes opened to throbbing and thickness.
I think it was me that turned my head to the right to see Mom sitting by the bed I was glued to. I remember most the whiteness of the place.
My surroundings and I felt unreal. She greeted me with the softness and strength of the perfect nurse. She knew that I was through it.
She knew how to watch the gauges and check the signs. That was handled. When I awoke, her concern was the fragile child who she believed had just tried to exit a life with her.
Dad was there somewhere too. I knew it instantly. He was also in the air. In an instant, with just a whiff of Dad, all that hope could flood me, then settle and pool and stagnate in my chest and throat.
The only other thing I remember about that particular escapade was the board meeting at the hospital. As a condition of my discharge, Mom and I sat in a room much too large for the furniture and the people in it, and fielded questions from about eight concerned psychiatrists and physicians who were lined up behind three tables that were directly in front of us.
But they let me go home anyway. Once I got a taste of the attention I got after that first overdose, I had to try it again. My last pill-gulping episode grew out of my desire to skip a weekend bus trip to Los Angeles.
Dad upped the ante and pumped my stomach on the spot. Then they sucked me dry. After each bout with Quaaludes, Dad was more irritated with me than the last.
It was never very hard to find his pills though. I think he knew what was going on. Like father, like son. If you want to be important in your world, make it up.
Our entire sense of self lay in how we were perceived and received by others. We had to lie to the world so we could lie to ourselves, lie to ourselves so we could lie to the world.
Dad would take my brothers and me to a motel when he wanted to be with Carolyn in a family way. On one of those occasions, they all went to the movies without me.
I think I stayed behind so I could rip Dad off. Because as I was rifling through his stuff in search of money, I uncovered some of his razor blades and decided to create some drama and place myself right in the middle of it.
I thought it would be a good idea to injure myself, fake my own beating. I cut my head repeatedly with one of the blades, cut my arms and neck, and then pounded myself in the face a few times for added realism.
I claimed that while taking a walk I had been attacked by a man wielding a club with razor blades somehow imbedded in it.
Dad may have gone along because he needed people to do the same for him. I would fake only one more attack on myself, and that was in Jonestown.
I pounded myself around the face and head until my nose bled, my knuckles were bruised, and my lips and left eye were swollen.
On the rare occasion that I had a real scuffle, I would sometimes dramatize it by finding a bathroom where I could increase the damage.
Dad immediately shouted for us to take cover and for the driver to take evasive action. It looked to me like the rock had bounced up off the pavement, but I was all for the drama.
Joyce, the same nurse who pumped my stomach, never questioned how such clean, shard-free, lacerations got on my back without a mark on my clothing.
Dad was happy to make a casualty out of me. Joyce probably thought it was just another set up — that Dad had administered the cuts — so she dutifully dressed my revolutionary battle wounds.
It was enough for me that they acted like they believed me. The appearance that it was true to them made it true for me. It became reality.
Especially if your cast Kirk Cameron as Dudley Moore's son. Who thought that would be believable? Hey, let's take two of the worst actors in the world that are complete opposites and cast them as father and son.
Then, to add to the puke factor, there's the 80's hair band background music. As if Cameron as son and Moore as father wasn't enough to induce projectile vomiting they pushed it one step further with the lame soundtrack.
Then there's the story line, the script. Were they taking mind altering drugs when they wrote this? If so, it was something that caused complete stupidity.
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Like Facebook Page. Most of the time, it is used to point out things that are especially notable and similar in a memorable way. Category: Language History People World Art Education Technology Internet Business Food Beauty Miscellaneous Industry Science Anatomy Health Crafts Cars Home Finance Medicine Fashion Fitness United States Environment Travel Law Hobbies.Provided to YouTube by Syntax CreativeLike Father Like Son · James Easter & Jeff EasterLike Father, Like Son℗ Sonlite RecordsReleased on: Main. Like father like son, Ga-Mokopane, Limpopo, South Africa. 28 likes · 3 talking about this. Father's time. Like father, like son: Chase Elliott is a Cup champion Dustin Long 11/8/ Proud Boys-Linked Conspiracy Theorist Says 'Deep State' Behind Upcoming D.C. Violence. Like Father, Like Son () TrailerDirector: Rod DanielStars: Dudley Moore, Kirk Cameron and Margaret ColinA mysterious potion switches the personalities of. Like father, like son: Ed McCaffrey introduces his new quarterback Dylan McCaffrey Sports. by: Dave Althouse. Posted: Feb 4, / PM MST / Updated: Feb 4, / PM MST.