I went downstairs yesterday to ask Dad what he wanted for dinner. I found him in bed, sobbing.

Jill: Dad! What's wrong?

Dad: Hmph. Grrg. It don't know.

Jill: Dad, are you OK?

Dad: Arg. Gawk. I. Think. Not. Gork. So.

Jill (becoming intensely alarmed): Dad, can you sit up? Do I need to call 9-1-1?

Dad (sobbing violently): Gawk. Eeek. Gurp.

At that point, I called emergency and the paramedics took Dad back to the hospital. He's still there and we're waiting for the doctor's analysis on What Happened. Was it a TIA? Not sure. Was it a heart attack? They're not sure.

Dad is back to his old self....sort of. He's cracking jokes with the nurses and reading the newspaper.

Me? I'm tormented by finding my dad in bed, sobbing, out of his head...and holding onto my hand tightly because he was as convinced as I was that he was about to die.

I'll never forget the fear and pain in his eyes. Ever.