I'm sitting here in my office trying to convince myself not to put my fist through the wall. Or rip the door off it's hinges and throw it down the hallway. It's a toss-up. The first option has the benefit of being remotely possible. Yet with the second, I'm less likely to break every bone in my hand and end up in the emergency room.
My father had a heart attack.
Even typing the words, staring at them, there is no way for me to put them together in a way that makes sense to me. Attack had a father my heart. On some level I understand that he is fine now, that he had his angioplasty and is resting comfortably. I heard from my mother that he was joking with the nurses when they put him on the heart monitor. And before they did anything, he had my brother call me to let me know that everything was going to be alright.
Still, I have this overwhelming urge to break things. To scream and cry and exact revenge on a world that would dare harm my father. And I think there must be something wrong with me, that my first reaction isn't fear, or grief. It is rage.
Me: Get better soon, or I will kick your butt.
Dad: With both feet?
Me: Damn straight.