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God’s Work is not Performed by Angels
Dad was hunched over, swaying, and unresponsive. Mom placed a hand on each of his shoulders and forcibly shook. “Wake up! Wake up!”
No response. Dad’s head lolled to the right side, leading to momentum that caused his body to begin tipping over. Mom and I scurried to each side of the toilet bowl to prop him up.
His white sweat suit was stained purple along the front. It was vomit. Purple, viscous, vomit was trickling down my father’s chin. My heart pounded.
It was the winter of 1998. I was a twenty-one year old college student at the time, a few days removed from having attended a raucous house party, where young people from all over the country had imbibed their fill of cheap beer. Watching people spew cloudy liquids and partially digested food chunks from their mouths was not a new thing to me. But I’d never seen any human being spew purple liquid from their gullet. Mom and I looked each other in the eye, as we both recognized that my father was in deep trouble. Purple vomit was a symptom of some sort of contracted unique virus or a disease. Dad might die if we didn’t do something drastic very soon.
“I’m going to call 9–1–1,” I said. “Can you hold him up momma?”
Momma took a step to the left, reached out her left hand to grab my dad’s right shoulder again, and then she pushed…
