A couple of years ago, my dad was really sick. The doctors couldn't seem to pinpoint anything and just kept giving him different antibiotics and such. Several words were thrown around; flu, mono, West Nile, but none seemed to quite fit the bill.
I think his body just finally broke down and one night, while alone at home, Dad had a minor stroke.
When he went to the doctor (the next day because he's incredibly stubborn!), they freaked and sent him immediately to Salina, where he spent several days in the Intensive Care Unit.
With machines beeping at him every 5 seconds and his veins full of morphine and various other drugs; when we weren't sure if he knew where he was, let alone who he was, my dad looked at me with clear eyes and said
"Happy birthday. Sorry about this."
In much less remarkable circumstances, I'm remembering your birthday today, Dad. Just because I gave you your presents a week early doesn't mean I'm off the hook, right?
Happy birthday, Daddy!
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