Dad

One year ago, my dad suffered from a broken back after an accidental fall. Think about our vertebrae like a stack of rectangular sardine tins. These cans are durable and valued for their long shelf life. Yes, they're perfectly fine until we hit the age of 40, when the cans begin to lose up to 5 percent of density each decade. It turns out the sardine gets stolen with time, and the cans get less strength.  

Imagine stepping on an empty can as hard as you can and you will have a rough sense of how a collapsed or flattened vertebra looks like. 

Another trick to keep the cans steady and sturdy is tying the stack with cord or string. If you stop and think about the string for a moment, it is pretty like the core muscles that stabilise our spine. But there's a good chance that our muscle mass drops with age, starting around age 30.

Not all gone, but enough to give my dad a breath-deprived and panicked feeling. He walks discreetly, taking small steps as if to move across an ice-covered driveway. When he had another fall at home last weekend, he couldn't stand up for nearly an hour. He lied under the bathroom sink, breath growing short and head spinning. A knot of anxiety and terror burgeoned in his head, and panic strangled my dad so tightly he could barely breathe. The kind of terror that made him lose the train of thought and all his marbles. 

"Relax," I managed to get home and help my dad, scanning the scene for blood stain and his body for open wound. I tucked my body under his, slinking my arms around his waist. He felt frailer, smaller than when we last hugged, like time is stealing not only years, but pounds from his trunk and spine. Somehow he looked weak but heavier than what I wish to move.

"How ya been, dad?"

My dad didn't move an inch. My sister, a godsend, arrived half an hour later. 

"Can I go over with you, my steps of bringing dad back on his feet, step by step?" I pretended to be calm. "First, bring me the blood pressure machine. Next, get both of us two pieces of chocolate." 

Moving our dad from the floor to his wheelchair took us another half hour. My sister and I exchanged looks. She gave me a worried look, and I drew a deep breath, steadying my heartbeat. It's not that my backache made my heart race. I simply worried about another fall and downward spiral. The situation is somehow like watching a Jenga game with collapsible sardine cans stacking one over another. One wrong move and the cans will topple and all fall down.

In the end, I took dad to the hospital that night to check out. Soon after entering hospital, it seemed like his body was starting to fall apart. He got more and more confused. None is more daunting than calming a delirious elderly who has been restrained in an unfamiliar environment. He yelled like a hailstorm, thumping on the hospital bed. 

You don't need a PhD to work out the solution. I tried my best to convince his doctor to send him home. Trust me, going home works like magic. 

Home sweet home. His smile at home soldered into my memory. It's the one I'll never forget.