I have always been told that I am the spitting image of my dad. I have his kind, pale-blue eyes, and his long arms that could reach far beyond to shield my body from harm. I have his heart that beats for other people, the heart that works day and night to show the love held in such a small organ.
But what if I became the only person with that face?
It was a cloudy August day, and I had dark bags under my eyes. I was dreading spending my entire Saturday at marching band practice.
Surrounded by flute and clarinet players, I got a notification that a family friend’s daughter was trying to call me on Snapchat. I opened the chat to see her asking for my mom to answer her phone. I stepped away from the group to call my mom, thinking it was just another fundraiser that my mom would get suckered into helping. When my mom answered she said that she had already been in contact with my family friend, wished me a good day at practice, and hung up.
Going back to practice, I could not help but wonder why I kept getting stared at by all the moms who were there volunteering to help with the marching uniforms, especially because my mom was one of the volunteers, but she had now mysteriously left.
I returned home just as tired as I left it, but the aroma of Italian food now wafted through the air.
“Why did we get Italian tonight Mom?”
I began to question if something was wrong, it was so random to me that she went all out for dinner, especially on a Saturday night.
Watching the nightly news, my mom said calmly on the couch.
“Hey Mom, why did Mrs. Sharron [our family friend] need you today?”
My mom, in a patient tone, answered, “Mrs. Sharron brought us food [and] I will answer all your questions after you make a plate.”
Her usual upbeat and energetic attitude was gone. An unfamiliar aura hung through the air. She wasn’t telling me the truth.
When my brother came out of his room, both of us began making a plate, It was then when my mom broke the news.
“Your father had a heart attack today, he is okay, [and] he is staying the night at the hospital so they can monitor him. If you would like, we can call him after you eat,” my mom reassured me.
My heart dropped. I had only heard about heart attacks from cartoons when they jump and flail on the ground. Picturing my dad like that nearly gave me my own heart attack.
When he was refereeing ice hockey, he suddenly did not feel good enough to continue the game, so he told the other referee he had to go and went into the locker room to change out of his skates.
After changing out of his uniform, while having a heart attack, he proceeded to try to drive himself to the hospital.
“Classic dad,” I thought, never asking for help.
Fortunately, one of the hockey moms stopped his crazy attempt at driving and called the ambulance. The hospital is a mile away from the rink, so they got my hero into surgery as quickly as possible.
After eating our dinner. We called Dad and made the same jokes, and he was just the same as before. Relief flowed through me.
I am and forever will be so thankful I can still share my face with someone who shows me every day why it is so special.