Three days later, he is in a hospital bed, tubes running into his nose because he's fallen and tests reveal that his oxygen levels are low and the doctors can't figure out why.
The call comes, as calls like this often do, on a Tuesday afternoon. I am leaving work and rushing to the tennis courts. I am hoping to get three sets in before dark.
It's my mom and she tells me he fell on Monday. On Tuesday, he went to the doctor and they took him to the hospital. It didn't catch me completely off guard. He has been exhausted for weeks new. As I drove home, I remember how often many times during the past few months, I would go home to visit my family and my dad would either still be in bed or napping on the couch.
I stayed late at the hospital the first night. Driving back home, I scan the radio stations, hoping to find something to keep me awake. I find Delilah. I hate this show. This stupid sappy, hallmarky, show.
Thirty miles later, I am completely engrossed in the story of two people who found love a second time around and remarry.
I never got to hear their wedding song. Delilah played it at the end of their story but I couldn't hear it. I think it was something by Air Supply and the cry, the seriously good cry I needed to have since getting that phone call earlier in the day, finally comes.