My dad was the epitome of soldiering on, of finding a way.
So it was beyond sad when we learned his cancer had spread into some of his bones, most likely his ribs.
Beyond enduring that pain, Dad’s ribs held more stoic stories:
Like when he was driving home after dark one evening after having to work late.
An oncoming driver crossed over the yellow line and was heading right for a head-on with Dad’s car.
Normally, your instinct as a driver in that situation would be to veer to the right, away from where the other car was coming from.
Instead, at the last instant, Dad’s instinct had him veer left, narrowly avoiding that complete head-on, with the other car plowing deep into the (empty) passenger’s front of Dad’s car.
Dad dodged that bullet, but had the pain of broken ribs for over month to remind him of the close call.
Or when I was a big-for-my-age grade schooler, and Dad and I sledded down a long, steep golf course hill.
With only one sled for us both, Dad was ‘low man’ in the double-decker.
Near the bottom of the hill, at top velocity, some freak mogul suddenly appeared immediately in front of us.
Next thing, we were airborne.
My landing was cushioned by my dad.
Dad got a broken rib that day, too, as a memento.
Those ribs. That dad.
And, yes, this image is that sled.
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