Autumn of ’89 began like any other. Summer was quickly coming to a close as winter crept in. Like most years, the family was anxiously anticipating sharing the holidays together.
Although each year became a bit more difficult due to the miles that kept us physically apart, in our hearts we remained close. What I have always cherished most about time with my family is the laughter and the enjoyment of simple things.
Amazingly, even that which we appreciate we often take for granted. Without realizing it, I took for granted that my mother and father, in their early sixties in ‘89, would be around for years to come. Years that in a moment seemed to be ripped from my reality.
It was late on a Monday night in September of that year when I got the dreaded call. “If you want to see your father alive, you must come quickly.” Those words rang in my head as I carelessly tossed cloths into a bag. My reasoning was such that a tattered grocery bag would suffice as my luggage.
My reasoning was also such that rather than immediately get on the road, I felt compelled to bake my father his favorite cookies. Although I had been told he was in a coma as a result of a massive cardiac arrest, I was convinced my cookies would be the magic formula to bring him around.
As I drove late into the night, memories of long ago danced in my head. Memories of times shared with my father who, although a pillar in my life, now lay lifeless in a hospital bed. Glancing frequently at the plate of cookies that were placed carefully on the seat behind me, I tearfully wondered if I would ever see my father alive again.
The shock of seeing my father hooked up to countless monitors and machines was almost beyond belief. And yet, what my sisters and I quickly realized was the devastation my mother was experiencing. The three of us wondered if our parents would have the opportunity to celebrate their 40th anniversary together.
With no obvious change over the next few days, my sisters, mother and I found comfort in each others arms. Strangely, we also found comfort by bringing each other cuddly stuffed animals. Within days, my mother’s collection of teddy bears grew and grew.
It was as if each bear held a special meaning to her and brought what little comfort could be experienced as she diligently watched her husband lay in his own world of a coma.
After weeks of praying for the near impossible, my father slowly began to regain consciousness. Knowing a miracle had taken place, for the - continued below ...