On the floor, sitting slumped against the cupboards. His face is pale and beaded with sweat. I drop my bag and run to him. “Dad! What’s wrong? Is it your back?” He shakes his head. “Dunno. Thought so. Different.” His words come out in gasps. I crouch beside him on the floor. “Pain?” “Um. Yeah. My back. My chest. Heartburn.” He rubs his left shoulder with his right hand, squeezes it. “Feel like crap.” I have to ask. “Have you taken too much medication, do you think? For the pain?” “Took a couple pills. Dammit.” He pushes his hand against his chest. “I think I might throw up.” “Maybe you should go to the hospital.” He makes a face. “Useless.” Dad’s kind of burned out when it comes to medical care. He’s seen doctors, physiotherapists, chiropractors, you name it. None of it was cheap and none of it helped. Plus Dad lost it and just about hauled off and punched a naturopath who wanted him to join some kind of chronic-pain support group. This was back in Vancouver.
