My dad had a heart attack today.
He's fine; Mom assures me that everything is fine and I shouldn't worry, although she should know better than to waste her breath. I always worry. Especially when my dad had a heart attack today.
The words still don't seem real - they're not words I like to own now. I've said them several times as the necessary calls and emails are made, but it still seems like I'm talking about someone else; maybe a TV character or something. So, I certainly don't have my own words yet to describe this day. I'll let someone else handle that for now, while I stay up too late and watch Letterman because I know that in an unfamiliar hospital bed 564 miles away, my dad can't sleep either and he's watching too.
Heart
By Rick Campbell
My heart was suspect.
Wired to an EKG,
I walked a treadmill
that measured my ebb
and flow, tracked isotopes
that ploughed my veins,
looked for a constancy
I’ve hardly ever found.
For a month I worried
as I climbed the stairs
to my office. The mortality
I never believed in
was here now. They
say my heart’s ok,
just high cholesterol, but
I know my heart’s a house
someone has broken into,
a room you come back
to and know some stranger
with bad intent has been there
and touched all that you love. You know
he can come back. It’s his call,
his house now.
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