Surrender is Not in My Vocabulary

     My dad walked to the mailbox and back today. This may seem unremarkable, but in actuality, this is a milestone. 

    My dad, a Vietnam Veteran, has severe health issues due to his unknowingly being doused with Agent Orange during his year-long tour in Vietnam in 1968. He's a cancer survivor in end-stage renal failure whose heart functions at only 25%. He's had several heart attacks, nine stents placed in his heart, and two in his leg. 

    One day in the beginning of December, he mentioned that he wasn't feeling well, and he didn't look too good. His face was gray. I had to run an errand, but I wasn't comfortable leaving him alone. He insisted that I go, that he was fine. When I came back, he was slumped down in his recliner, gasping for breath. "Call 911,” he rasped, his hand clutching his chest. 

    The dispatcher directed me to get an aspirin as we waited for the ambulance. He was so weak that he couldn't take it by himself; I had to open his mouth and push the aspirin into his throat. I held back my tears as I held his hand. 

     The EMTs arrived quickly, started him on oxygen, and whisked him to the hospital. He was there for a few days when we learned that he had tested positive for COVID and had pneumonia. He spent Christmas in the hospital, alone. 

    His recovery has been a long one. He is weak. He is tired. He coughs a lot. 

    But he says, "Surrender is not in my vocabulary." 

    He walks around the house to build up his strength; he climbs the stairs, slowly and steadily. He does his own food shopping. He drives himself to dialysis three days a week. 

   He may take breaks, but he does not quit. 

   He never gives up. 

   And today, he walked to the mailbox and back for the first time since the beginning of December. 

  Surrender is not in his vocabulary.