Some of you know and some do not that I underwent surgery Friday afternoon to repair a Colles fracture of my right distal forearm. This was NOT as a result of a motorcycle accident; rather, a slip-on-a-wet-floor-post-hot-tubbing accident. They had to use a little more hardware than originally thought, and I may not use my dominant right arm in any way or return to work for two more weeks. But overall, the surgery went well. All of that pales in the light of what happened in the 24 hours before that. Many of you know that Becky and I moved my father here from Chicago three years ago. We bought him a sweet little house, a place he could putter around in, being quite the handyman. After decades of estrangement, and at the behest of my previously contentious and now much wiser daughter, my father and I laid aside our history and our hurts, forgave each other, and moved on. We became Pal O Mine and Pal O Yours. The past three years have brought much joy and healing to us both, and to our family. I could not get through to him via phone on Thursday, and neither could Becky. Around 6:00 pm, we drove the three miles to his house to check on him. His TV was off, and he was not in his favorite chair, watching sports. My dear father was lying dead on his bedroom floor. I do not believe he suffered. I do believe that the last three years were among the best of his life. And Im unshakably convinced that my remaining traversal of this planet has been made infinitely and unknowably better by the reconciliation of our relationship. A lesson brought so painfully home; may it never be forgotten. Thanks for listening, colleagues and friends. Good night, Popster.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 16:17:03 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015