Jaybrams.com

Originally submitted August 27, 2007 for ENGL 1310 @ Dallas Christian College. Emphasis added for website, copyright follows guidelines at bottom of the right sidebar. 

There is a T-shirt hanging in my closet that has never been worn and was bought only for the content it boldly proclaims: “Those who think they know everything annoy those of us that do.” I had heard my father utter these words for years on end, generally during one of our heated sports debates. We had a bit of an unspoken rule related to sports growing up that still rings true today: If you don’t know what you are talking about, leave your mouth shut at the door and learn. It really is not as crass as it sounds; it was our way of prodding, jabbing and laughing with – and sometimes at – each other. Unfortunately, the sports bond common among many father-son relationships rarely carried over into other areas of discussion.

This is not to say the relationship lacked love; by all means, my father did all he could to provide and display affection for his children.We did not shy away from hugs in private or public, every phone call ended with affirmation of our love for one another, and while we rarely had the resources to enjoy extravagant vacations or family nights, the occasional movie or sporting event was expected. But when it came to quality conversation ours was shallower than a desert lake. Religion and spiritual issues were left to the children-and-youth ministers, and education was mostly set at the feet of the public-school system. In all honesty, even in my youth, I understood the difficulties my father faced in this area and gladly accepted our relationship at face value. At the very core, we were good friends. He shared wisdom and encouraging words when he felt comfortable; otherwise, we simply kicked back together and talked sports.  Little did I know how quickly this would change. 

These four weeks proved to be a challenging and important time in my development as a son and ultimately even the father that I am today.

February 13th, 1998. I was 16 years old and enjoying a nice deep sleep when my dream, as dreams tend to do, suddenly turned quite odd – I remember it vividly because of the events that would follow. The dream turned its attention to my father on stage at our church singing, or more accurately, wailing an a cappella special for the congregation. It was beyond painful to listen to. My dreaming heart was pulling for him to step down and let us get on with the service, but the wailing would continue to the point where it literally woke me from my sleep. As I opened my eyes and stirred in my bed, I came to the frightening realization that the wailing was in fact continuing and disturbingly coming from my father. The hall light was blinding as my mother frantically barked instructions to my older sister ordering her to call 911. A comic but annoying dream had turned to a horrifying reality.

My mind and body were in shock as I stumbled into my parents’ room at roughly 2:30 in the morning on a school night and watched my father roll from one side of the bed to the other, clenching his head with both hands with the look of terror on his beet-red face.

The paramedics arrived quickly and stabilized my father before heading off to the hospital, which thankfully was within half a mile of our house. Within twenty minutes of the rude awakening we were in the emergency room awaiting any news. For the most part, the next few hours are pretty much a fog for all of us. The doctors gave us their initial assessments and informed us my father would need to be transferred to a larger hospital with more resources and the top neurologists in the Dallas area. During the wait for the Care Flight helicopter, we were finally given the okay to see him. I remember waiting and watching at a distance, still in an emotional state of shock, as they rolled his bed in. Tubes and needles were sticking out of every possible area of his body: arms, wrists, nose, mouth and head. I kept my distance for several minutes as my mom and sister held his hands and spoke to his unconscious mind. Suddenly I realized that I might never see him again; the thought that this would be the lasting image of my father broke me out of my emotional stagnant state. For the first time since the night began, I wept.

The two strokes my father suffered that night before the ambulance arrived would keep him in a comatose state for nearly four weeks. These four weeks proved to be a challenging and important time in my development as a son and ultimately even the father that I am today. I came to grips with two things during these trying weeks: 1) The rest of my life might have to continue without my father, and 2) If by some miracle he did recover, I’d be damned if we were not going to move into the deep waters of a strong and meaningful relationship.

… the tests had little to do with trying to help him…
they were trying to determine why he was still alive.

Every few days the doctors would run tests on my father. They would later tell us the tests had little to do with trying to help him; rather they were trying to determine why he was still alive. He became a bit of a case study until one day, without warning, he miraculously awoke. His vitals were normal, and after two days of stability, he was transferred to a rehabilitation center ready to begin his life again.

Over the next several months my father worked hard to retrain his muscles and his mind; he suffered greatly from memory loss for a number of weeks after his initial recovery. I was there nearly every day to encourage him and push him forward, but more importantly to build a new bond. And though we never talked about it, I could see in his eyes that he had the same intentions as I. There is no doubt my father and I had always been friends; it took a tragedy and a miracle to bind us together as father and son.

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