February 17

Having just received word that my father had had a stroke, I called my husband and asked him to book me a flight to Florida. Within a short amount of time, I had handed off work assignments and made arrangements for my children. As I was leaving the office, a co-worker stopped me, saying “I’ll be praying for you.” I gave her a half smile, thanked her and drove home to pack my suitcase. But something had  happened. The anxiety that had been building up in me began to drained away; a sense of peace took its place. On the way to the airport, on the flight; I felt a uncharacteristic calmness carrying me towards my father’s hospital bed.
 
His stroke affected the right side of his body, but doctors assured us that in time, with therapy, he would partially recover. “I recommend Mr. Dawson stay in our rehabilitation facility for about a week before having therapists come to your home to continue his treatment,” the lead doctor said to Mom and me. Dad had been itching to get out of the hospital since the day I arrived. It was a hard sell but we convinced him to go to the rehab center, promising that we would visit him first thing in the morning to see how he was doing.
 
As we pulled into the parking lot that morning, Dad was sitting on a bench with his suitcase next to him. “He’s apparently checked himself out,” my mother said flatly. I was to fly home that afternoon. All I could think to say to my mom was, “I’ll be praying for you.” She gave me a half-smile.