It’s the Smallest of Things

Today I picked up my father from the hospital. It’s been decided, if you will, that he’s likely had an episode due to a new thyroid medicine that was introduced two weeks ago. There seems to be no reason to keep him they say. 

Picking my father up was probably the most depressing thing ever. There was a few women there following us around like we were movie stars. “You’re so lucky”, they would say. “How amazing it must be to have someone picking you up”, they would say.  One woman in particular cried as we were leaving. I know from speaking to her that she has bipolar disorder. I know from speaking to her that she has two grown sons who never speak to her. I know from speaking to her that she has a very lonely life. I kind of felt bad taking my dad away from her. 

When my father and I got home, he walked in and just smiled. He told me my house was beautiful and he was so proud of Joe and I. He told me that he felt so loved and never so happy. He felt home. He said, “It’s  not too late for me to be happy.”

We turned the corner around into the living room and I pointed at my shelf that was holding his high school photo. He stood there and stared at it and said through tears, “wow, what a coincidence or maybe it’s fate.”

2 thoughts on “It’s the Smallest of Things

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