“He’s standing there at the end of my bed, but he isn’t saying anything.”

When our beloved neighbor, Henry, and his son, Allen, were in a tragic automobile accident our entire neighborhood was devastated.

We are a close-knit community, have street fairs, barbecues, etc. and have made numerous friends over the years.  Henry died that day and his son was left in a coma for two weeks.  The doctors feared Allen would never wake up.

My husband and I would visit him just about every day, and while we were taking a break in the lounge, one of the nurses came rushing in and said come with me.  She led us into Allen’s room and we were astonished to see him awake.  His eyes were open and he was trying to speak but nothing was coming out.

The nurse gave him a sip of water, and he started to make audible sounds.  Then he looked at my husband and said, “Is my father OK?”

We didn’t know what to say.  Again he said, “Is my father OK?”

My husband looked at me and said, “Yes, he’s OK.”  Then Allen looked a bit puzzled and said, “Why isn’t he answering me?”  I asked what do you mean.  And he said, “He’s standing there at the end of my bed, but he isn’t saying anything.”

We looked but couldn’t see anything.  My husband sighed and took Allen’s hand.  “Allen,” he said, “I’m afraid your dad didn’t make it.”  Allen nodded but said nothing.

Well, Allen recovered.  It took a long time, but he made it.  His mother said he never mentioned it again that he saw his dead father at his bedside.

J. Cantor
Minneapolis, MN