Over the next few years his health deteriorated further. He lost weight, and his energy flagged. When I did see him, he often sat slumped in his chair in a defeated pose I’d never encountered before.
And then, one morning, I got the call that the ambulance had come in the middle of the night to take him away. I rushed to the hospital and met, for the first time, a thin, sad figure that I hardly recognized as my father—so different from the strong, robust figure of my childhood. I drove him home that day, driving as carefully as I could, and knew that he was weak when he never once bothered to comment on my driving! That night I told my wife about how much I regretted passing up the opportunity to fly more with Dad when I’d had the chance. I mentioned that in the back of my mind, I’d always thought that I’d become a pilot someday. I’d just never done anything about it.
A few weeks later, for Valentine’s Day, she surprised me with an introductory flight at a local flight school. I grinned like a chimp as I climbed into the school’s PiperCherokee. When the Lycoming engine barked to life, it was as if a spark had jumped a gap in my heart—the love, vigor, and excitement of my childhood came rushing back.
As the instructor led me through some simple maneuvers, I realized that flying had to be part of my life again. The instructor complimented me on how comfortable I seemed in the sky and how sure my movements were—I told him that I’d done this before.
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