Just for Teenagers

Fireworks^R9

Audrey Mangone

I was fast asleep the first time my father almost died. It was the middle of the night, and while he was clutching his chest suffering a major heart attack, I was lost in a dream that would last me long after his rush to the hospital.

I was fourteen when it happened, and at that tender age, I initially thought the incident was no big deal—a mishap that my family was being overdramatic about. In the days that followed, I remember feeling so irritated that everyone was in a constant panic. My house phone would not stop ringing, people at school asked how he was feeling, and family friends kept showing up to our house with casseroles. I was confused as to why everyone was acting so paranoid; my dad was the one who was sick, but everyone around him was on edge. I thought he would get better, and we would move on with our lives, plain and simple.

I soon learned how very wrong I was.

In the weeks that followed his heart attack, my family sort of sprung away from each other in separate directions, the way fireworks do when they explode in the sky. My mom was at the hospital, my sister clung to her friends, my brother confided in his wife, and I kind of just hung around, waiting for things to get back to normal. I remember eating out at different restaurants every night with my aunts and grandparents, a way for them to distract me while my mom spent time with my father.

In the midst of my teenage angst, I remember complaining to one of my friends that I felt like I didn't even have a family anymore. I couldn't remember the last time we were all in the same room, and instead of being understanding, I was a little annoyed with the situation.

At this point, I hadn't even visited my father in the hospital. I talked to him on the phone almost every day, but because he was sick and on all sorts of medications, I didn't really want to see him. I thought it would be too hard to face him in such a sickly, vulnerable state, especially because it was so opposite of his normally energetic personality. I figured he would be home in a few weeks, and I could just see him then.

Like I expected, my father finally came home. The rest of my family was overjoyed, and while I was so happy to have him back, I couldn't help but gloat, with an I-told-you-everything-was-fine attitude. It was then I learned that his heart attack wasn't just bad luck; his father, whom I had never met, suffered heart conditions that ended up taking his life in his early forties. Hearing this, I came to realize how serious the situation really was. But, still I thought, it was fine; he was healthy, and we could all just move on.

I spoke too soon, because just after he returned home from such a good recovery, his heart suffered another battle, and once again, he was in the hospital for a major heart attack.

The second time around rattled everyone much harder, including me. It took the second heart attack for me to realize that my father might really be sick. The fact that he could be dying kept running through my head; I just couldn't shake the thought. I realized then that at any moment my father could possibly slip away from me. While it was a grim thought, it was also enlightening, because it made me realize how important spending time with him really was.

This time around, I visited him multiple times in the hospital. I no longer accused everyone of being overdramatic, or treated the situation lightly. I swallowed what had happened with full force, and prayed, hoped and wished my father would come home safe once again.

He did, and thanks to medicine, and everyone's good thoughts, remained heart attack free for a long while. I would say that things got back to the way they were, but they didn't—in a good way, though. Post-heart attack, I spent a lot of time with my dad and appreciated all the moments with him.

Sometimes I feel guilty that it took the endangerment of my father's life for me to realize how precious the time I get to spend with him—and the rest of my family—really is. But I also realize that in the dark, scary reality of his heart condition, the sparkly silver lining in the story is that it opened my eyes to how quickly things can change.

As the months turned to years, my father got healthier and healthier, and eventually his series of heart attacks became just another family memory. Although we valued it deeply, his heart was no longer the subject at dinner. We had all developed a newfound love and appreciation for him, and though it was triggered by his heart attack, it was rooted inside us long after the attacks passed.

Years later, I am proud to say that my appreciation for my father is still alive and well. We recently took a family trip to Hawaii to celebrate my parents' twenty-fifth anniversary, and as we sat on the beach for the Fourth of July fireworks to begin, I looked up at my dad and couldn't stop thinking about how happy I was that we were there together. We have had countless fights and flaws in our relationship, but I know my dad is an irreplaceable part of my life.

As the fireworks began exploding in the sky, he kissed my head, reassuring me that he, too, was happy to be there as a family. With each firework that burst into an explosion of color, I could think of one more reason to love and appreciate my father.

(991 words)