I got the phone call at work that Dad had been in the accident. Mom didn't know much other than that dad was in the hospital in Cranbrook BC, near the Alberta border. I called my husband to come pick me up, and arranged for a replacement at the shop I was working in. A second phone call warned of the seriousness of the accident, they were sending my father for x-rays to see if his skull was fractured.

When my placement arrived, I quickly went through the mall to a travel agency to find out about flights to Cranbrook and possibly Calgary. My husband found me returning to the shop and we hurried home. We discussed possible plans for who was to go on the plane.

Arriving at mom's, she gave me the number of the Cranbrook doctor so that I could call and get more details. The doctor said that my father didn't have a fractured skull, but that they had put him into a coma and were trying to get a helicopter to fly him to Calgary. My mom left the room and I bluntly asked the doctor for the truth of the seriousness of my father's injuries. The doctor said that he would not be able to even come close to a 50-50 chance. They were pumping blood into him four different ways as fast as they could. At the Cranbrook hospital my father was to receive 19 units of blood.

The decision was made that mom and I would fly to Calgary and that my husband and daughter would remain home. At the Vancouver airport, just before boarding, I called the hospital to see if my father was still alive. He was, but he was still on route. Disembarking the plane in Calgary, we hurried to locate a phone and check on Dad's status again. He was still alive and was right then being moved for surgery.

In a blur we found ourselves at the hospital. Dad was out of surgery and they were trying to stabilize him in ICU. An eternity later a doctor located us in the waiting room and began to brief us on dad's condition. Dad has lost a lot of blood. So much that they had opened up his chest and abdomen as they were sure that there would be internal bleeding. Other than a very badly bruised heart and ruptured left lung, there was none. My father had received a closed head injury and while they could have operated to help relieve the swelling that would occur, they felt that he would not survive the surgery. Dad had also received many scalp lacerations and they had reattached his left ear. These were the reasons that he had almost bled to death. He went on to explain that if dad survived the long weekend, that just possibly he might live.

Over the next few days, my fathers life hung in the balance. Three chest tubes were needed to keep his lung from collapsing and a battery of other tubes and wires were attached. My father was a fairly big man, but the swelling to his body was so severe that he literally filled the hospital bed from side to side. The swelling of his brain was so great that he was unable to close his one eye and his head was about as large as a medicine ball. Dad survived the long weekend and for a couple of days progressed, then as is often the case with people on respirators, he developed pneumonia. Again, the fighter in dad won over insurmountable odds. Dad spent a full 2 weeks in ICU. At the time we really wanted to get dad back to a local hospital so that life could return to normal. My mom, my daughter (retrieved on a round trip after the first week) and I flew home the night before dad was transferred. As we were leaving the hospital for the last time, we happened to be in an elevator with a doctor that had treated dad in ICU. Just after we had gotten out of the elevator, we turned to thank him for saving dad's life. He looked at my mom and I and stated that we had to realize that surviving the accident had been the easy part and that the real battle was just beginning. At the time, we had no idea what he meant.

Dad arrived back in BC and was transferred to a hospital about 45 minutes away from home. That day was September 15th, my parents 32nd wedding anniversary. Just after supper we arrived at the emergency ward to see dad as he was awaiting a bed on the neuro floor. For the first time in 2 weeks my father spoke. His voice was strained but he seemed to recognize that something was not right. He asked questions and answered questions, but not with a simple yes or no, but with a full sentence. Each word was labored over while he did his best to communicate with us. The left side of his body was completely paralysed. He did not seem to hear out of his left ear, nor see out of his left eye. His right side was uncontrollable and was constantly moving like a newborn moves.

While my husband was shocked at seeing him for the first time, my mom and I were thrilled. He was talking and communicating. He was asking questions and answering them. While we are not sure of what happened later than night, we never again have seen my dad communicate as he did that night. It may have been a stroke or it may have been the medications that he was placed on so that the staff would have an easier time in dealing with him and his agitated movement.

From then until early in December, my dad remained at that hospital. His shattered arm was pinned together and we waited for dad to "wake up". We watched him as he relearned to brush his teeth and get over his incontinance. Everyday my mom, my daughter and I traveled the distance to visit him. To wait for him to look at us and be back to the way that he was. In December he was transferred to another hospital for rehab. which included speech, life skills, fine and gross motor skills.

On December 16th, the grandson that my father had waited for (my daughter was the apple of his eye) was born. This was the grandson that he wanted to play catch with. To take fishing and go camping with. The one that was to get a special train set he had purchased in advance for him. After Scott and I were released from the hospital I went home, changed clothes and drove in to show grandpa his boy. Part of me hoped and prayed that seeing him would somehow bring back that missing spark in his eye. It didn't happen. But a small miracle did occur. When we got there, one of the nurses was playing crib with my dad. Crib was a game that I was "weaned" on. I had tried to play it with him a few times since his accident, but he was not able to. On this day, after finishing a round, the nurse realized that dad had broken his hand and placed cards in the crib that would have given him a better score. I looked at the cards my dad had and I smiled and inside at least, whooped for joy. Part of my dad was back. Dad would never throw an 8 & a 7 into the crib, but would instead break his hand.

The day after my son was born, dad came home for his first day trip in preparation for Christmas. Dad proved to be a lot of work. My mom, my husband, and my brother, who had just arrived home from England where he had been since my dad was hurt more than had their hands full. My dad came home on the 24th, and while he was scheduled to return on the 26th, he went back on the 25th.

During all the time that my father was in hospitals we had continually been battling the wards over the medications that they were giving dad. After a long and hard battle, we finally persuaded them to keep dad on only one medication. While still in hospital after the birth of my son, I got a call from my mom and she informed me that they were wanting to place dad in a mental hospital. From a follow-up visit to my doctor, I discovered that the one medicine that dad was on was the biggest contributor to the exact same problems that they were giving him the medicine for. I phoned the hospital and ordered that he be taken off it immediately. They phoned my mom and she said to remove him. During our next visit to the hospital they informed us that they had decided to take him off the medication. We were also informed that dad's time at rehab would soon be up and that we needed to figure out where dad would go from there.

On February 14, 1989 dad moved to King Edward House. A place where he was to stay for the next year, the maximum time he would be allowed. At KEH he learned to walk again. He also learned many basic skills again. Because daily visits interfered with his therapy, we traveled in 2 times a week to visit, and began to bring him home every other weekend. We received a phone call one day and although it was not a visiting day, they asked us to come in. Dad had woken up and had improved noticeably overnight. We then realized that it was about 90 days since he had had his last dose of medicine.

The year quickly went by and while dad had improved remarkably, it was obvious that mom would not be able to handle dad on her own yet. Dad went into full time respite care. It would take 3 1/2 years in all for dad to come home full time, and after 6 months, he was placed in 1/2 time respite care.

My brother graduated from Law School in May of 1989 and we all traveled to Perperdine, in Malibu in an motorhome. I was proud of my father. He had over come incredible odds just to be able to walk and learn some of the basics in life over again.

In March of 1992 my marriage failed. I think that I would have given my right arm somedays to be able to talk to my father and seek his wise advice that I now so desperately needed. I was 21 when he had his accident, and I was just beginning to realize what a great and wise man my father was. He had an in-depth relationship with God. He had incredible inner strength and was an example of integrity. More than I wanted to see my mother with my children, from the time that I was 8 I could hardly wait to make my father a grandfather. I always knew that my dad was special. I just wish that sometimes I had told him more. He was not a huggy and kissy type of father, but there was always love in his eyes. Always a look of pride for a job well done.

My daughter was born 4 days late on June 3, 1987 while my father was out of town on a business trip. He had ordered me not to have the baby while he was gone, but God had other plans. He phoned home that night to check in with mom and she answered the phone and said Hi grandpa. He continued talking and told her when he would be home when he realized how she had addressed him. Even though he was not scheduled to return home for another 2 nights, my father and his boss that was accompanying him quickly finished the trip the next day and dad arrived at the hospital just as visiting hours were starting and surprised me. Together we stood at the viewing window while he surveyed his first grandchild. He commandeered a picture my husband had took, and at visiting hours the next night he arrived with a birth momento that I will always cherish. My dad sold paints for a living and he had taken her pictured, gotten it color photocopied and pasted it on to empty 1/2 pint paint cans. All of the details about my daughter were listed on "batch no.1" My first son was born 15 weeks after his accident, and no "batch no 2" cans were ever made.

I think for me, the hardest thing involved around my dad's accident is that my children will never know on this side of heaven, just how great a man my father was. Instead, my children take turns making sure that grandpa doesn't get lost when we go places. My children took turns holding grandpa's hand while at Disneyland, and while grandpa thought he was helping them, they were really helping him. I am glad that he is not really aware of his deficits. I am not sure that he could handle it.

Now, I must gear up for the next battle. Watching my father's body die. One of the units of blood that was used to save his life initially was tainted with Hep. C. We found out he was positive just before Christmas. A baseline of blood works were taken in January and repeated in April. There was a 15% change in the 3 month period. Now, we are noticing that his skin is tinged yellow as well as the whites of his eyes.

In many ways, I have felt that he died on that day back on September 1988. Who he was and his spirit died, just his body and a shell of him remained, but I have always been thankful that at least a part of him did remain. Now, almost 10 years later, what was left is starting to fade. For the most part, he remains happy. He doesn't feel ill. And I am very grateful that in the summer of 1994 I took him back to a family reunion so that he could see many of his family, some maybe for the last time.

I guess that in the next months I will finally be able to say good-bye and see you on the other side. I sure hope that heaven will have a coffee shop where he and I can sit and play crib. Who knows, maybe coffee will even taste good to me and we can sit, play and spend part of eternity stirring up memories and watching sunsets.