Dad was in hospital waiting for surgery. He called. I arrived. He wasn’t optimistic. We said goodbye, then he was wheeled into the theatre by two nurses.
I’m not superstitious, but I walked around the ER reception cubicle continuously like I was stringing a spinning top because I got it into my head that if I stopped walking my dad would die. And I sort of wanted that, but I didn’t want to feel like I had a hand in it. And maybe if I stopped walking he would die. Irrational, I know. We had never really seen eye to eye. But, he did call me, no one else. And I’m here now.
So, I kept walking. The surgery wasn't over for hours, and I kept walking. After an hour, a stab victim joined me on my rounds. He needed to drain the liquid from his recently punctured lung and the walking did him good. We spoke about my father and his son as we circled the room, taking in the frenetic ER goings-on, separate, outside of the action.
Eventually, the doctors exited dad’s theatre and walked towards me. I must have looked a mess. Anyway, I wasn’t sure what they were going to tell me. I mean, I couldn’t feel whether my dad was still alive or anything. Like I said, I’m not superstitious.