The morning of his surgery we’d been there to see him before he went in, and he’d been forcibly cheerful. Almost like he had a feeling something was going to go wrong, but was hoping for the best. That, more than anything, haunted me. But even if he’d said something, if he’d asked to wait and do the procedure another day, that something felt off…would he be here now? There was no way for us to know. Even so, the surgery had gone smoothly, and he’d recovered well enough in post-op for them to move him back to his room for the night. Even though it was usually an out-patient procedure, they’d wanted to keep an eye on him a little longer since he’d already been admitted. Mom and I had stopped for a quick dinner, but as soon as we’d gotten home, I’d felt this dire urge to get back to the hospital NOW. That’s when the phone rang. And I got chills. Which wasn’t that unusual. Every time the phone rang I’d worried it was the hospital, that something was wrong. But this time, I knew.
