"It doesn't mean anything. Sam's old enough now." My Dad playfully punches me in the shoulder with one arm while reaching up to rub Sam's head with the other. It's harder for him now that Sam's a head taller than him, but he's done this since Sam was a toddler. Even after all of what he's been through, he's still a inch or two taller than me, standing straight and tall. Sure, his thinning hair is more gray than brown, but the swath of stubble on his cheeks is still full of color. He slowly walks over to the chair opposite the couch as Sam and I sit back down.
I smile a little back at him, while Sam still shows the slight redness from his minor embarrassment. I can't believe I have my Dad in my life. Jonathon Alexander Burton. My Dad. It's a miracle he's still here on earth.
I never knew him. My mom divorced him and fled with me a few days after I was born. For the next few years, father and grandfather searched for us, while my mother kept one step ahead, changing her name and appearance with every new town and marriage. Finally, the searching ended when my grandfather died and his nurse convinced my father to stop. And to marry him. They then had a daughter, and years later, Sam, via in vitro and a surrogate.
Dad never forgot, though. When he was diagnosed with a rare type of leukemia, he started over, looking for both me and his runaway collegiate daughter as possible marrow donors. Sam was passed over, as there was always the slightest chance he wasn't Dad's son, and my father didn't want another heartbreak from losing another son.
The search almost ended too late. I was located a few weeks after Dad became bedridden, and then hospitalized. Unfortunately, his wife and daughter died in a car accident a few days before I was found. Dad gave up, and he began to set up plans for me to become Sam's guardian. He had given up, but I found out his plan and took the tests to see if I was a compatible donor. I was, and so was Sam.
The transplant, combine with other treatments, cured him. He's been in remission for over three years now. Unfortunately, the treatments, combined with such a long period of bedrest, severely weakened his leg muscles, as well as leaving partial damage to the nerves to them. Even with years of weekly physical therapy, he still finds it hard to walk or even stand for more than a few minutes at a time. What's worse is that he is also now prone to blood clots if he sits down for too long. Lying down is usually okay, but he definitely tries not to sit for much more than twenty to thirty minutes.
All this means is that he couldn't stay at the manor. The stairs were out, completely, and no way to make the climb easier. He first tried to stay in one of the old servants' quarters downstairs, the one where he stayed in when he got too weak to go upstairs. However, most of the doors to the back hallway were to narrow for the times when he needed a wheelchair. On his third night back, he got stuck in the downstairs bathroom and Sam and I had to lift him through the connector back to his wheelchair in the hallway.
After that humiliation, he decided to move out, leaving Sam and me at the manor. His new place is only a few streets over, a one-level ranch with wide doors and halls. He has his physical therapist, Luis, come over a few times a week for help. Luis was taking one of Dad's studio classes at the college as an elective for his minor when Dad had to take his sabbatical. When Luis found out about Dad's need, he applied immediately for the job once he graduate a year later. Dad has another assistant, Mitch, who lives nearby and sometimes spends the night for emergencies.
Sam and I phone Dad daily and visit him at least once a week, usually on Wednesdays. However, because of my schedule this week, we visiting a day early. Dad usually fixes lunch for us. A real hodge-lodge of cuisines. Not all that favorable to my diet regiment, hence my protein bar contraband. Dad did most of the cooking for the family before his illness, and he continues his experiments in world fusion recipes. Just another outlet for his artistic explorations. He still paints, draws, and even sculpts in clay, sometimes. It's hard for him, with his multiple ailments, but he can't stop being the artist. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
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