One year ago tonight, about this time (11-ish), my mom called me up and said my dad was having some "weird symptoms." It was nearly midnight. Mom didn't say they were calling 911 or anything, and I quickly realized she wanted me to drive them to the hospital.
Now, the hospital is a good twenty to twenty-five minutes away, though at midnight the traffic is pretty light. I quickly drove over to their house in my pajamas (they live a half-mile away). Mom said Dad's heart was racing. Keep in mind, he has a pacemaker. His heart isn't supposed to be allowed to race. It has a speed limit. 
Backing up a bit here. A number of years ago, Dad's heart stopped while he was at work. Through God's grace, he stepped out of his office before it happened, so someone saw him. He got CPR. And his office was about forty feet from the hospital. Call it luck if you want. I don't call it that.
We learned then that Dad has been suffering from congestive heart failure (idiopathic, if you want to know). Mom and Dad had evidently decided not to worry the kiddos. We weren't altogether pleased. So Dad had a pacemaker installed to make sure that his ticker would, you know, keep beating.
So that was the situation. Pacemaker. Heart racing. Not good.
Needless to say, I was terrified while I drove them to the hospital. Word to the wise, folks: If you've got someone suffering tachycardia in your car, have them ride in back with your mom who's a nurse. I was sitting there trying not to speed too much, wondering if Dad's heart would hold out until we got to the hospital. It's not like there was anything I could do but drive, but I think I lost a significant amount of hair on that ride.
We got him to the ER, and the terror continued. The bazillion monitors blaring and blinking didn't help.
I thought he was going to die.
It feels funny writing that, because I don't think I've ever admitted that I had that fear. But it was definitely there.
Fortunately, the doctors at St. Vincent's took good care of him and shocked his heart into the right rhythm. But even with his pacemaker set to shock him if his heart started to misbehave, he experienced VTach entirely too often thereafter. My enjoyment of Cowboys and Aliens was greatly hampered (as was Dad's) by his heart's repeated insistence on being a diva.
Mom and Dad consulted with some terrific cardiologists and eventually determined that Dad's heart was getting worse. They decided to get a Ventricular Assist Device (LVAD) to help extend his life. The procedure was scheduled, delayed, scheduled, delayed for a variety of reasons. But finally the day came a few weeks ago. And the procedure didn't go exactly perfectly. Dad wasn't clotting properly. He kept bleeding.
The doctors worked on him for around eighteen hours. But finally they stabilized him. Whew.
But in the process, he was given roughly his body weight in blood and blood products, and his body had a difficult time clearing them out. The first time I visited him (read him a bit of Shadows in Flight), he was still sedated and on a ventilator. The next time, he was awake. Barely. But I still didn't know if he had all his marbles. Such a long surgery, who knows what might've happened?
This is a former professor of Organic Chemistry, keep in mind. World War II buff extraordinaire (Pacific Theater in particular). Cribbage demigod. Regularly taking down his whelp of a son at Trivial Pursuit. So those marbles were pretty important. I have a lot of good memories of just talking with my dad about whatever book I was reading, talking about the history of science or <insert all topics ever discussed>.
Well, more time has passed, and Dad was released (marbles intact) from the hospital today. One year after that tough night. He's now battery-powered, and we've told the grandkids that under no circumstances are they to unplug him. I have at least half a mind to co-write a series of books on the stuff he knows about, titled "Battery-Powered Books" or "Robo-Dad Says" or something. Oddly, I find myself in need of title assistance. So feel free to recommend one.
Of course, there's still plenty of recovery left, and your prayers would be appreciated. But we're hoping for many more good years of golf in the phenomenal Oregon summer weather, watching our favorite shows together (Top Shot is a show I watch with Dad and my son), and maybe writing that series of books.
Tomorrow is Dad's 70th birthday. And actually, this brings up a bit of macabre humor from the Night of the Drive of Terror. Dad was lying there on the gurney in the ER and commented to the medical staff that he really wanted to make it to age 69. I quipped that it was about ten minutes until his birthday, so maybe we should set the bar a bit higher.
Welcome home, Dad. Stick around, okay? I love you.