When my 68-year-old father had a massive stroke while riding his Harley, the ER staff greeted him with chilling indifference.
As they wheeled him in, I overheard a doctor mutter, “Another organ donor who thought he was invincible,” not realizing I was close enough to hear.
AD
He lay unconscious, leather vest still on, stained with blood. His silver hair was matted, his arms inked with fading tattoos. I saw nurses exchange looks, judging the smell of engine oil, the patches from military tours, and the rough exterior.
Then one of them pulled a photo from his pocket: me, in a graduation gown. Their expressions shifted. Surprise softened their faces. But their first impression had already framed him—an aging biker, not a man worth saving.
