The incident was worse than we'd thought it would be; yet Dr. Lipschitz, dad's attending doctor, thought that he would be okay.  Dad ended up having to have emergency heart surgery because it was found that he'd had several large blockages in the arteries of his heart; this was what caused his heart attack.

Dad had the surgery on Friday.  He was still in Intensive Care, hooked up to all the machines and tubes and wires, but Dr. Lipschitz was thinking of removing the breathing tube and the nose hose.  He said my father was doing very well, considering the circumstances, but he would have to lose weight and stop smoking.

He would also be laid up for several months until his heart healed and would have to take it easy until he regained lost strength.

Mom told the doctor that she and her kids would help dad with his recovery and support him in any way possible.

I told the doctor that I would do everything not to aggravate our father because we were worried that it would lead to yet another heart attack ... and the next time it happened, it could possibly kill him.  He said it would be a very good idea if we followed with my plan.

Dad slept most of the time we went to see him during visiting hours; maybe today he would be awake (or at least more aware).  We could only see him for fifteen minutes every two hours because that was the rule of the Intensive Care unit, and besides, dad needed to get as much rest as he possibly could, to help him heal faster.

I doubted that he did:  it seemed like every few minutes, nurses (or various doctors) would go to his bedside to take more blood, check his vital signs, and/or his neurological responses. 

I felt sorry for him.  He looked so helpless lying there in that hospital bed, unable to do anything but lie there and sleep most of the time.  He looked like a big baby, and it broke my heart.

I was the only one of the kids who was allowed to see dad during visiting hours:  my two little brothers (who were eight and four) were too small to see dad at the hospital, and besides, it might upset them seeing their father looking so helpless.  While mom and I visited dad, grandma entertained my brothers in the Intensive Care waiting area to help pass the time or took them to the hospital cafeteria for something to eat or drink.  She also brought extra games and coloring books to keep them occupied.

It wasn't long before my brothers would get bored and start whining because they felt it was unfair that they couldn't see their father.  I knew exactly how they felt.  It was only a few years ago when I was as old as my oldest little brother.  I couldn't visit grandpa Teague after he'd been felled by a stroke.  I wanted to see him so bad, but I couldn't because I was underage.

Now that I was of age (twelve and a half), I could see my father.  I was allowed to go with my mother and visit him, although for brief times every few hours.  It was still better than not being able to see him at all.

*To be continued.*