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| Wayne Klumper |
As I shingled on Tuesday, surrounded by friends, my boss stoically called me off the roof - usually a joking person, immediately my radar indicated something could be wrong.
As I approached my brother (who also shingles with me), I saw in his glossy red eyes that something was in fact wrong - he was talking to our sister on the phone. She was telling him that our dad, the loving, cheerful, humble, selfless man you see in the picture, had been in a very serious accident on his motor cycle. The day turned from wondering "what fun should I do with the rest of the afternoon?" to "is my father going to survive?" Punch number one.
You feel like you should rush in that situation, hurry up and do something, anything to take control, but really there was no need to rush. There was nothing I could do. In a haze of fear and uncertainty, I went home to change clothes and get cleaned up while my dad was rushed to the ER in Sioux Falls.
My family convened in the waiting room of the ER and again, sat and waited. We waited for bad news. . . in that setting I feel it's part human nature to prepare yourself for the worst. In my head cycled images of what happened, what he looked like, what the future will be like now. After a few minutes we were shown to a private room where we could wait for the emergency surgeon to explain to us the situation. So we waited some more. Private rooms in the emergency room are usually reserved for families of people in bad shape - punch number two.
An hour passed and the doctor entered. Doctors are serious - they do people no good by telling people anything but the truth. The truth was that our dad was hurt bad, and in serious danger. I can't remember his exact words because I was pretty much in shock, but when he made reference to being prepared to lose him, we lost it. It's the most scared I've ever been in my life. Punch number three.
From the emergency room, a patient in critical condition is taken to the ICU. It took them quite a while to get him situated and hooked up to a lot of machines - which I've developed a huge respect for; they are very important. Usually I am a person that hates blood, or anything dealing with injuries, but when I stepped foot into my dad's room for the first time, my family and I had no choice but to put our game face on. He was in a coma (and still is), but he could sense our strength - we had to be strong for him. Under the surface I was spinning, churning, fighting to hold a tidal wave of emotion from bursting out.
Officially my father is a TBI patient (traumatic brain injury), but he's also got several broken and dislocated bones, burns and cuts. The fractures are in his shoulder, ribs, head and face - he's in rough shape physically, but the main concern is his brain, the mental side. Bruising has caused swelling in his brain which can bring serious danger, so we've been monitoring that very closely each day. At this point it appears he's avoided brain surgery, but I won't rest easy until we've made it through a couple more days.
I have been inside this same waiting room for 81 hours, leaving only to visit my dad in his room, to get a short workout and to run an errand. Otherwise we've been right here, ready to back my dad up with anything he needs. Every doctor has told us that the danger zone is 72-96 hours after an accident like he experienced, so we're getting closer. With each scan and test, and each probe and monitor, my strong, strong dad keeps passing. He's a fighter, a courageous, tough, determined man. Punch number four, but this time, the punch was thrown by my dad. Fighting back.
The reason I write is to inform you all of the accident, but also to plead and beg you to stop. Just stop what you're doing - put down the controller, sit down for a second, stay up a few minutes longer at night, and just pray. Pray that he'll get better. Pray that the unbelievable people in charge of my dad's health keep making good decisions and use steady hands. Pray that nothing like this happens to your loved ones. In three days, thousands of prayers have been said for my dad. He's a tough guy, but he wouldn't be able to get through this without all the help from other people - family, friends, people he's met once and even total strangers.
I stressed a lot to you how important I feel it is to tell people how you feel about them and how much they mean to you. I'll tell you honestly that Sunday night, before I drove off from my parents' house, I looked both of them in the eye and told them I loved them. Thank God my dad will hear me say it again, but if the circumstances were different, and I did not have the chance to talk to him again, I'd feel assured that the last thing he heard his son say was "I love you big, dad."
I will keep you updated in a short time - hopefully with encouraging news. This is not a sprint, it's a marathon. I laced 'em up tight for this one, going for a long run with my dad to bring him back.
Watch out, more punches coming - Wayne is ready to fight for his life.
