(Lisa Marshall/ Web MD) — “Leese. It’s Dad. I need your help.”
My father’s calling me from the cafeteria at Denver’s Presbyterian/St. Luke’s Medical Center – the hospital where in 1967 he kicked off a prestigious career as a dashing, 6-foot-3 cardiologist. Dad tells me he’s been seeing patients. He just sat down to grab some lunch, but something’s wrong. He can’t remember where he parked the Jag.
“I think I may have had a little stroke or something.”
I do something that would have been unimaginable 6 months earlier. “Your car is in the shop Dad,” I lie. “I’ll come down in a bit and take you to get it.”
Dad sounds relieved. He tells me he has to get back to work, instructs me to page him if I need him, and hangs up. (…)