In the wee small hours of June 9, the day before our shared birthday, my dad had a massive heart attack. He’s holding on, but the prognosis isn’t very good. I spent all of the 9th and most of the 10th at his bedside, then returned to Spokane, exhausted and fighting off another onslaught of that flu I told you about last week. Of course, I’ve got one ear out for the telephone, and will return to Grand Coulee as needed. In the meantime, I’m hoping to go back out to the lake house and write. You see, my dad isn’t much for handkerchief-wringing–he’s want me to do my work and carry on with strength and dignity.
There’s always the meantime, isn’t there?
I told him I love him, and that he’s been the best dad anybody could ever hope to have, and promised him I would be strong–because he taught us to be strong. My creativity and talent for words come from my mother. My true grit is Dad’s gift.
Thanks, Dad. I love you. And whatever happens, I’ll be strong.
