My father died a decade ago of congestive heart failure. It wasn’t a shock since he’d suffered a heart attack a few weeks prior (his second) and doctors sent him home after a month in cardiac rehab with a dire diagnosis, an oxygen tank and a whistle to blow if he woke up in distress.
An hour after arriving home from rehab Dad went to take a nap. A few minutes later the whistle loudly chirped. My mother and brother frantically rushed into the room to see Dad lying in bed with a broad smile on his face. He said, “Just testing.” That tells you most of what you need to know about the man.
