Around 18 years ago my dad was writing pages of his life…I plan to eventually finish that off in a book. An excerpt from my dad’s story goes:
My mom Alice came rushing in and took dad, laid him down on the couch and said, “Don’t worry I’m just going to call the doctor.” She didn’t have a phone, so quickly went next door and asked the lady there to call for an ambulance and a doctor. Alice knew it was serious.
She hurried back to her husband’s side and held him in her arms. She prayed to God please spare him. My dad could not talk, but he muffled something about a pain in his head.
When the ambulance came they wrapped an oxygen mask around his face. He vomited and then died in Alice’s arms. She cried and cried. In the ambulance they managed to revive him for a few minutes, but by the time they got to hospital he was gone.
My 12th birthday was just a few days away when my dad died of a stroke from high blood pressure. It came as a shattering blow to what was a happy family.
Dad kept saying a few days before that he must get everything in order, sort his legal documents, just in case. I had the best parents a boy could ever wish for.
I was outside when my brother-in-law Jimmy Good sat me down and said, “Son, I’ve got bad news to tell you. Your father has died. Now you must be a man.”
So that’s just a snippet of my dad’s story, which will probably be re-written several times before I’m okay with it. But this basically sums up why I write and try to improve with every step.