Dad’s second brain surgery was at 7:15 this morning. He did very well and was awake and cracking jokes by 11AM—all while sporting an impressive head bandage (although he refused my plea for a photo shoot).
It’s not yet clear exactly what the fluid in his brain was but we will know more when the pathology results come back. Until then, he’s resting, listening to Native American flute and eagerly waiting to be “sprung” from the hospital.
My Dad was nice enough to hand me down his awesome black Prius (since he isn’t able to drive following brain surgeries). As I rushed down to the hospital in his car this morning, I was in a bit of a fender bender (which I haven’t revealed to Dad yet—so this post may serve as a barrier between me and his impending lecture).
I hurried to gather all my information from the glovebox and was panicked to realize my insurance card was missing. My first instinct was to call dad to save me—then I was struck with the horrible realization that I couldn’t. I did, eventually, find the paperwork but that terrible feeling of not being able to reach him stays with me.
I need my dad here. I need him here to tell me that my insurance card is in the center console. I need him here to talk me through taking pictures, filing a police report and getting the other drivers’ information. And I need him here to scold me on the perils of driving too fast. I may not be able to cure cancer but I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to keep my dad here for as long as I possibly can.
So Dad, I’m sorry about the car—but I’ve never in my life looked so forward or been so grateful to have you here to lecture me.
P.S. Dad: The accident was totally not my fault.