“Hey, mijo!” Dad answered the way he always did when I called, happy to hear from me, as though I didn’t call him and Mom every day to check on how they were doing in Laredo. I was curious about the doctor visit. My father had been having stomach problems for several years. The issue wasn’t completely unexpected. As a younger man he drank a little too much and ate too many spicy and fatty foods. Surprisingly he was in decent health. In his mid-sixties he was diagnosed with diabetes, but that was as far as it went, other than the stomach problems. Those grew worse around the time he turned seventy, affecting his intestinal system as well. The doctor’s exam revealed Crohn’s Disease, and not only that; the inflammatory bowel disease had been untreated for so long, drastic steps were necessary.

The doctor recommended Dad undergo surgery to remove a portion of his large intestine and construct a colostomy. Mom, my brothers and sister, and I worried how something so drastic would affect Dad at his age, but the doctor reassured us that though there was some risk, the procedure was routine. After we talked, Dad decided to go through with it.

Dad is considered the patriarch of our extended family. Both grandfathers have been gone for decades, and of all our uncles, only two, Dad’s brother-in-law and one of Mom’s brothers, are still around. So on the day of the surgery most of our cousins, my aunt, and uncles were at the hospital near downtown San Antonio. We’re not a large family, but we were crammed into two waiting rooms while the surgery was performed. Fortunately two of my cousins are nurses, and one of them is married to a nurse who worked at the hospital we were at, so information was not lost in a babble of doctorese.

The surgery proceeded smoothly at the beginning, but of course, that didn’t last. After a longer than usual wait the doctor dropped the bomb: Dad’s insides were a mess. The Crohn’s was more advanced than originally thought, and the entire lower intestine, not just part of it, needed removing, and an ileostomy would be constructed from his small intestine. There was more. Because of the extent of damage due to ulcerated tissue, Dad was in danger of fatal infection.

The doctor talked to Mom, and through tears she told us that he had given us a choice: he could leave things as is, and Dad would die. Or, he could perform surgery, and Dad could die anyway. These were our options? Of course we chose the surgery.

Many details of that day blur together. One thing stays sharp in my memory, however. Mom, my siblings, and I were in an empty bay in the Intensive Care Unit, the curtain drawn around us. I think Mom needed quiet time without everyone asking how she felt. Mom’s friend Ms. Ramirez was there, too. She’s very religious, and Mom told us that Ms. Ramirez wanted us to say a prayer for the dying with her.

“No,” I said flatly. “Dad is not dying yet. We will not say a prayer for the dying.” I was not a little boy anymore. I did not care if I was rude. Any energy we expended, spiritual or otherwise, would be to the positive, focusing on life and bringing him through this alive.

We waited, and we waited, and we waited. As seems to be the case in such situations, moments of grim reality were leavened by family stories, jokes, and bouts of uncontrollable, though muffled, laughter. Finally, the doctor informed us that surgery was done. Dad had made it out.

We couldn’t see him until the next day. After many long tight hugs we left the hospital. My immediate family and their significant others and kids met at the restaurant in the family’s hotel.

Such relief and a release of stress. Such a light, peaceful, loving appreciation in our interactions with each other. And we swore the burgers we ate there were the best we ever tasted.

But the ordeal wasn’t over. Dad would be in recovery, unconscious, for six weeks. The hospital became a place I spent a part of every day. I learned the best times to get the best parking spots in the garage.

There were little milestones. He opened his eyes today! He recognized me! He squeezed my hand! He was moved out of the ICU to his own room–not so little a milestone. He was conscious for hours at a time now. Then the time came to be moved to a nursing home for physical rehabilitation for four weeks. He had been bedridden so long he wasn’t able to walk. That, too, was an obstacle he overcame.

Four years have passed since then. That tough old man celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday last year. He’s still feisty, still tries to eat food that’s now off-limits. He makes us crazy, especially Mom, just because he likes to push our buttons, though after everything, we’ve learned to try to laugh it off. But the struggle has left its mark on him. He looks much older than he would have if none of this had happened. He moves more slowly now. Still, when I talk to him on the phone he sounds almost the same. The voice is little raspier, and just a touch weaker, but I can hear the smile on his face when he answers, “Hey, mijo!”