An ambulance was rushing through the traffic in Kazhakuttom. Inside the vehicle, I was holding dad’s hand while using my other hand to steady him so a sudden brake wouldn’t cause us to fall down. I kept calling, “Dada, Dada, Dada…” hoping dad would stay conscious, but I heard only a painful groan in response.
“Is this his end?” I feared, chanting the ‘Hail Mary’ prayer under my breath.
By the time we reached KIMS Hospital, dad was vomiting. While rushing toward the emergency room, I called Dr. Arun, the neurosurgeon and our former doctor. The doctor had saved mom when she had an accident, and I was confident he would do the same now.
I was bombarded with questions. I explained, “A few hours ago, Dad fell down the stairs and hit his head on the nearby table during his daily walk with his prosthetic leg.” After the initial investigations, Dr. Arun informed me they were moving him to a ventilator. Dr. Arun then asked for close relatives to gather in a nearby meeting room.
My heart raced as I sat inside the meeting room, waiting for Dr. Arun to speak. “Unfortunately, your dad is brain-dead,” the doctor said solemnly. “Given his other health conditions and age, there is nothing more we can do. All we can do now is wait for him to pass away.”
I sat outside the emergency room, chanting the ‘Hail Mary’ and ignoring all incoming calls. I wanted a second chance—to go back in time and help my dad get down the stairs carefully, to be at his side wherever he went like a guardian angel. Moreover, I wanted a second chance to tell dad that I loved him so much and that I was proud to be his son.
I write this today because I never got that second chance.