My 68-year-old father got a massive stroke on his Harley and, when he arrived at the hospital, the ER staff seemed very cold toward him.
As I watched them bring my friend, I could hear one of the doctors mutter, “Yet another person who believed he was invincible and would donate his organs.”
He was lying down, his persilum amidst bloodstains and still wearing his vest. His hair was silver and not neat and his arms showed faded tattoos. Nurses gave each other a glance, considering the odor of engine oil, the military patches and how rough the drivers looked.
He then unfolded a picture from his pocket and it was me graduating in a gown. They looked different from how they had been before. It brought a softer expression to their features. Still, their initial thoughts painted him as an outdated biker without much value.
Still, they didn’t know who he was: a highly recognized combat medic, a caring single father and a regular volunteer reading to kids with cancer. A person who helped develop a nonprofit that gathered large sums for veterans with PTSD. None of those factors influenced their views. They were already seeing him as a generic-type person.
Last night, in the ICU, I sat by my father as technology helped him breathe and I told myself that he deserved the finest care and I would see that they regretted the mistreatment.
I wasn’t expecting those promises to lead to anything more significant.
That I’d have to face my own unease whenever he was a little rough around the edges.
The next day, I made sure to put on my best suit to take action. Yet, I was surprised by what he did. He roused himself and showed me the pad he was writing on. The words were badly scrawled: “CHECK UP ON KATIE.”
“Who’s Katie?” I asked.
He made this note: “NEW GIRL.” CAN.CER WARD. SCARED. “I promised I’d meet them there.”
Even as he was close to dying, he looked after another’s fear. That was the man he became.
He had not caused the accident. Gregor dropped the bike on the ground to stay safe from a reckless person. This happened because of the trauma. Most likely, my helmet prevented something awful from happening to him.
Afterward, Dr. Mercer gave a report: the patient’s brain is swollen and recovery is not yet certain. Further, traces of cannabis were found in his blood.
I answered, “We are supposed to use them.”
They are treating my combat-related PTSD with marijuana. If someone had read his natal chart, they would have seen it.
After I revealed that my father was a veteran, worked at a children’s hospital and was the father of a malpractice attorney, Mercer’s attitude shifted. I didn’t have to admit that playing the guitar hadn’t been a part of my life for years.
Once we were back in the ICU, I discussed Katie with Nurse Patel. Talking about my father’s volunteering made her look different. She replied, “That surprised me.”
“Sometimes, appearances can be misleading,” I said. Just like you have many qualities besides the one your tag gives you.
She nodded. They will give him the respect he is owed.
I was seated next to my dad and recalled how he looked after me all by himself after my mother died, rode with me as I crossed the country on the bike and hid his struggles.
When I was a teenager, he would always park far from the front of the house. I felt embarrassed. He always handled the rejection impersonally. He was always there, loyal, kind and true to his character.
It was up to me to explain and justify what he did.
I reached out to Children’s Memorial. The woman smiled happily when she heard the words “Road Dog.” Once I explained, she collected messages and cards from all three kids.
Then, I reached out to Jake Martinez, Dad’s friend and partner in forming the Veterans Motorcycle Association.
I started by saying, “I’ve come up with a plan.”
Jake immediately answered the question. “Whatever you require. You are his daughter through and through.
In the afternoon, there were noticeable changes in the ICU. A respiratory therapist was friendly and approachable. A friend gave me a motorcycle magazine. One of the nurses smiled and tucked his blanket in.
Before I knew it, the front desk was on the phone. A delivery came in and it was said to be very thorough.
Katie was the one responsible. Wearing a headscarf while going through treatment as a seven-year-old, with no hair due to chemo. She found handmade cards around her. She said, “Grandpa Road told me he’d show up.” He always keeps his promises.
She offered me her stuffed dog.
Truly, this is Brave. He gave it to me, but I feel he needs it more at this point.
I received permission to bring her into the intensive care unit. She discussed the concept of cards and talked about the other students too. He could give a thumbs-up despite his pain. She left behind a CD containing messages from her friends wishing him a speedy recovery.
The staff stood still outside, not uttering a sound.
They treated him differently at night. The nurses took every step to explain their actions, called him by his name and placed Brave back when he tripped. You will see lots of drawings, cards and color in his room.
I laid down next to him in the chair, prepared, feeling proud.
The first phase was finished. His presence was now noticeable by them.
Tomorrow, work will start on phase two.
