Three times a week after school I go visit my dad. When I enter the hospital elbow room where he has lain in a coma since his accident, my eyes lots wander to the lone golf game ball my mom move at his bedside. Just six months ago, my father was driving a golf cart across the street that bisects the local golf course when he was hit by a car. He suffered severe brain injury, and the doctors have ruled out each possibility of him waking up again. When I look at him lying in bed, frail yet peaceful as if he were asleep, its hard not to dwell on the what ifs: what if he hadnt played golf that day? What if he hadnt been behind the indicate when the black Camry plowed into it? What if I still had the chance to need all those questions that choke me up when I see him in the hospital? I cant pretend that I have substantial enough distance from the event to draw conclusions about life, but I am already beginning to see myself in very different terms.
Ironically, through this accident my dad has give a chance to face reality head-on. Before the accident, my kinship with him was warm but fraught with tension. He never seemed agreeable with what I did and reprimanded me for every wrong step I took.
He had strong opinions about my hairstyle, clothes, friends, and--above everything else--my academic performance. When I was not seance at my desk in my room, he invariably asked me why I had nothing to do and told me I should not procrastinate. He show that if I missed my teenage years of studying, I would sorrow it later. He didnt like me going out with my friends, so I...
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