I was at the grocery store when my brother called. It was unusual for him to call at that time, so I answered right away, sensing something was wrong. It was about Dad.
Dad had a sink in the garage. One day, he opened a cabinet door above the sink, closed it, and then leaned over to wash his face. When he finished, he accidentally hit his head on the sharp corner of the partially open door.
At first, the pain seemed normal for how hard he’d hit his head. But over the next three weeks, the pain kept getting worse. Mom took him to the doctor, but the doctor didn’t order any tests.
Later, when the pain became unbearable, Mom rushed him to the ER. Tests showed that enough blood had leaked into his brain to shift it to the side.
My brother called because the surgeon wasn’t sure how Dad’s brain would react once they drained the blood—it could start swelling dangerously. Dad was airlifted by helicopter from Indiana to a major hospital in Dayton, Ohio.
I packed my things and drove to the hospital. By the time I arrived, Dad was getting ready for surgery. We met the surgeon, who explained everything in detail and even drew a diagram on a whiteboard to show what he was going to do.
Dad made it through the surgery and stayed in the hospital for a week. During that time, I stayed with Mom, driving her from Indiana to Dayton every day—an hour-long drive each way, including some tough city streets. Mom never liked driving, and with everything going on, I didn’t want her to have that extra stress.
When Dad was finally well enough, I went back home to Pennsylvania. But the next time I visited, Dad pulled me aside. He had some cash folded in his hand. He placed it in mine, wanting to help cover the gas and driving expenses.
I tried to refuse—I didn’t need the money, and I was just glad I could help. But Dad wouldn’t let me say no. Smiling, he gently closed my fingers around the money and insisted I shouldn’t lose anything because of him.
I wrote this two years ago, but the memory still feels fresh.