I was doing something mundane like folding clothes or making the bed when my cell phone rang.

It was my brother.

“Hey. Mom thinks Dad’s had a stroke.”

“What?”

No.

My call waiting beeped, distorting his response.

It was my husband.

Hell no.

“What do you mean ‘she thinks’?”

I tend to look at strokes like having a baby.

Either you’re having one, or you’re not.

My brother then explained that Mom had noticed Daddy had been stumbling around the house for a couple of days, speech slurred, eyes not focused, but he refused to let my mom take him to the hospital.

He’s stubborn as hell sometimes.

My mom (on the third day mind you), finally called a neighbor who happens to be a nurse, who took one look at my dad and herded them both into the car and took him to the nearest ER.

“He’s getting a cat scan now to determine the severity, but…he can’t talk, or walk apparently.”

No.

You know that feeling that you get when an elevator drops too fast for a couple of floors, and you panic for like 5 seconds?

I knew from that feeling and from the fact that Daddy wasn’t speaking, that something was very wrong.

Only an act of God could keep my Dad from talking.

I have had the unfortunate pleasure of actually watching my father have a small stroke a few years ago when I took him out to dinner for his birthday at a Philadelphia steakhouse.

But even though his speech was slurred…he could talk.

From that experience, I also learned that a small stroke, (also called a T.I.A.), can last from anywhere from a couple of minutes to a few hours.

It had been two days since my mother noticed that my dad was stumbling around.

My call waiting beeped again. I didn’t even look at it.

“If it’s a small one, he could be home in a couple of days, like before…”

“I don’t think it’s a small one.”

“Don’t say that..y-you don’t know for sure. Don’t…”

One of my brothers is very sensitive.

“Ok. Ok you’re right. I’m sorry. Where are they now?”

I put the phone on speaker and stopped putting the folded laundry into drawers and started putting clothes into an overnight bag I grabbed out of the closet.

The phone beeped again.

Still not looking.

I can’t do this right now.

As my brother rattled off logistics, I sent a text message to my other brother up on Boston.

Daddy’s in the hospital.

I’m aware. In a meeting. What’s his status? What’s your ETA? Who is supervising mom?

My other brother?

Not.as.sensitive.

They’re twins. Go figure.

Getting cat scan. Can’t talk. Can’t move. Packing now. Neighbor’s with her. Your brother thinks it’s a T.I.A.

Don’t think it’s a T.I.A.

Agreed. You tell him.

In the middle of texting with my brother, my husband’s text cut in.

Why are you ignoring me? I really need you to pick up the phone. I need to talk to you.

I may or may not have smacked myself in the forehead with the phone in exasperation.

I made a decision.

At that moment, whatever his crisis-of-the-week was just got voted off the island.

I called him back.

“Look, I wasn’t ignoring you. My dad had a massive stroke and he’s in the hospital.”

“Oh my God. Is he alright?”

Did you not hear me say the words “massive” and “stroke” in the same sentence?

“I don’t think so. He can’t talk.”

“Oh my God. Is there anything that I can do? What do you need?”

“I don’t know. I have to get down there. I’ll text you later.”

I hung up before he could respond.