When my father, who was 68, had a stroke on his Harley, the ER staff indifferently treated him.
I heard a doctor whisper, “Another person who believed he was so strong that donor organs wouldn’t be needed,” as he brought my friend into the room.
He was lying there motionless with his leather vest on, all covered in blood. He had untidy, whitening hair and his arms were covered with tattoos that were no longer clear. While the nurses were together, I noticed them glancing at each other and judging the scent of engine oil, the military patches and the tough way their driver seemed.
One of them then opened their pocket and showed a picture: I was standing in a graduation gown. What they said and how they said it was not the same as before. Stunned surprise made their faces softer. He was already seen as an aged biker by them, so they didn’t consider saving him.
No one realized that he had served as a war-zone medic, was a devoted sole parent and gave his time each week reading to terminally ill children. A man responsible for founding a nonprofit that helped millions of veterans dealing with PTSD. All those things were irrelevant to them. They had already made him into a typical character.
During the night, when I sat overseeing the machines that replaced my father’s breath, I guaranteed that he would be given the best treatment possible and when he healed, they’d realize how they should have acted.
I wasn’t expecting promises to bring something far greater into my life.
Or that I could no longer ignore how uncertain I felt about his personality.
The following morning, I went back wearing my best suit, all set to speak in the case. I was surprised by the way he acted. Even though he could not speak, he passed over a notepad for me. Those were his exact words: “CHECK ON KATIE.”
“Who’s Katie?” I asked.
He said: “NEW GIRL.” CAN.CER WARD. SCARED. I told them I would not miss their wedding.
He thought of a child in danger even on his deathbed. This was the kind of person he was.
The crash was not something he had caused. He stopped the bike suddenly to avoid hitting a maniac at the wheel. Norman’s stroke was the result of the trauma he faced. With the helmet on, he was able to survive what happened.
After that, Dr. Mercer warned us: Robin’s brain was swollen and the conclusion was unclear. After that, the authorities found cannabis substances in his blood.
I replied that it had been ordered by the doctor.
“Using medical marijuana could help with PTSD that develops after combat. If someone had looked at his birth chart, they would have seen it.
After telling him that my father was a veteran, helped at children’s hospitals and had a son who was a malpractice attorney, Mercer began to treat me differently. I didn’t have to let him know I hadn’t touched my instruments for ages.
Inside the ICU office, I talked about Katie with Nurse Patel. Mentioning what my father did, I could tell her attitude changed. That’s an unexpected outcome.
“People might appear one way, but often have a different side,” I said. “I’m sure you’re not just your name tag, for certain.”
She nodded. He will be treated just as he deserves.
My dad and I were together and I remembered the man who brought me up by himself after my mother passed away, traveled out west with me on the back of his bike and did his best to keep me from knowing how hard his life was.
While I was a teenager, I would ask him to park a bit away from our house. I became self-conscious about it. He did not let his feelings get hurt by it. He stuck around, being loyal, kind and true to himself.
At that moment, I needed to explain what he had done.
I dialed the number for Children’s Memorial. Road Dog’s name brought a smile to the woman’s face. After I told her, she volunteered to collect cards and messages from the children.
Then, I phoned Jake Martinez, who was Dad’s best friend and part of creating the Veterans Motorcycle Association.
“I have an idea,” I explained.
Jake immediately answered the question. “This marriage is what you want it to be. You are definitely his daughter.
During the afternoon, the mood in the ICU was different from the morning. A chatty respiratory therapist greeted me. I found a motorcycle magazine waiting for me at the post office. One nurse smiled and placed the blanket in a different position.
After that, the front desk gave me a call. It was couriered by the press that the documents were extensive.
It was Katie who made the choice. At the age of seven, her head was bald due to chemo and she wore a headscarf. Many handmade cards were placed near her. She told me Grandpa Road said he’d see us when we got to the stop. He always keeps his promises.
She gave me a stuffed dog to play with.
This is someone being brave. He loaned it to me, but I believe he may use it more over the next few months.
I was allowed to roll her into the intensive care unit. She described the cards and also informed him about other kids. He put on a strong face despite the pain he was feeling. After she left, she gave him a CD with well-wishing messages from his friends.
From outside, nurses and doctors were not allowed to speak as they watched.
That evening, the siblings treated him unlike their usual selves. The team demonstrated what they were doing, called him by his name and sweetly comforted him when he tumbled off the horse. His room contains lots of drawings, cards and pieces of colored paper.
Together in the chair, I would sleep and every night I felt proud.
We had finished phase one of the project. They recognized him as the man they wished to find.
Phase two will start tomorrow.