Friday morning, the phone rings.
"Charlie was at a conference in New York," and she means the city, "and he collapsed in the street. He hit his head...."
My stepmother, Michelle, breaks off, and her breath is ragged. She apologizes, and says that she hasn't been crying, doesn't know why it only hit her now. I understand, it's the pressure of knowledge, of completely understanding something only when we have to tell someone else about it.
My dad is 65 and has agonizingly high cholesterol and blood pressure. Diet and medicine have kept him around long enough for me to be grateful for his presence and his love. He's suffered heart attacks, hospital visits and carries so many tiny supports in the arteries surrounding his heart that I've stopped counting. Most have been implanted in the inferior vena cava by going through an incision in the thigh. It's not exactly dinner conversation. I know it's just a matter of time.
"Some good person found him, and must have called an ambulance."
Attending a trade conference, he had complained of dizziness, and started on the short walk back to his hotel. He was still out when the first responders arrived, but they got him to the closest facility. The night was pretty tense, but not for issues with his heart. Something in his daily medication had gone off balance, and he'd passed out from low blood pressure. The immediate problem: a concussion sustained falling unconscious to the pavement.
He found out he was in a "teaching hospital" after asking why there were so many faculty around. By morning, young interns were wandering the place in small groups. For some reason, a lot of them visited his room while he was recovering. He'd wave, they would leave. He called home to reassure everyone that he was fine, he'd be coming back on the train Friday evening accompanied by one of his staffers. No driving or traveling unaccompanied for a while.
It's Sunday, early afternoon. We're just finishing up a sandwich lunch on the shaded back patio. It's a beautiful day at the end of summer, and Michelle pressures my dad to tell us "the best part." He's still dizzy, and a little tired, but smiles and reminisces. A doctor had finally confided in him that not everyone was getting the same level of observation.
"Apparently the word was getting around, and everyone had to see this guy, you won't believe it, he's 65 and he looks 50. I had tour groups."
I don't remember much else about the weekend, but the memories I have are worth it.
My stepmother, Michelle, breaks off, and her breath is ragged. She apologizes, and says that she hasn't been crying, doesn't know why it only hit her now. I understand, it's the pressure of knowledge, of completely understanding something only when we have to tell someone else about it.
My dad is 65 and has agonizingly high cholesterol and blood pressure. Diet and medicine have kept him around long enough for me to be grateful for his presence and his love. He's suffered heart attacks, hospital visits and carries so many tiny supports in the arteries surrounding his heart that I've stopped counting. Most have been implanted in the inferior vena cava by going through an incision in the thigh. It's not exactly dinner conversation. I know it's just a matter of time.
"Some good person found him, and must have called an ambulance."
Attending a trade conference, he had complained of dizziness, and started on the short walk back to his hotel. He was still out when the first responders arrived, but they got him to the closest facility. The night was pretty tense, but not for issues with his heart. Something in his daily medication had gone off balance, and he'd passed out from low blood pressure. The immediate problem: a concussion sustained falling unconscious to the pavement.
He found out he was in a "teaching hospital" after asking why there were so many faculty around. By morning, young interns were wandering the place in small groups. For some reason, a lot of them visited his room while he was recovering. He'd wave, they would leave. He called home to reassure everyone that he was fine, he'd be coming back on the train Friday evening accompanied by one of his staffers. No driving or traveling unaccompanied for a while.
It's Sunday, early afternoon. We're just finishing up a sandwich lunch on the shaded back patio. It's a beautiful day at the end of summer, and Michelle pressures my dad to tell us "the best part." He's still dizzy, and a little tired, but smiles and reminisces. A doctor had finally confided in him that not everyone was getting the same level of observation.
"Apparently the word was getting around, and everyone had to see this guy, you won't believe it, he's 65 and he looks 50. I had tour groups."
I don't remember much else about the weekend, but the memories I have are worth it.