Mother’s day, Sunday morning, a call, thank you for the flowers? No. “I have sad news…a black out….a fire hydrant hit…911…unconsciousness…a small desert hospital…” A bag is quickly packed; a daughter says remember your sketchbook. You drive the five hour drive with your grandparents hovering faintly just past the windshield above the hood of the car. You feel a peace, then a horror and tell them that you know that he is theirs, but that he has grandchildren of his own who still need him. Getting close, only 46 miles of small desert road,with a blinding dust storm, left, cell service lost. The hospital comes into view. “I am his son…” Gurney, medical men in flight suits, oxygen bottles. A salute from the pilot and the helicopter rises into the deep blue sky. Mom, gas, coffee: a drive to the Paradise Road hospital. Emergency room, ICU, “…we will run tests.” Breathing tube, sedatives, and no answers as relatives arrive. Strong emotions and speculative prognosis are expressed by all. Color and life re-enter his body, but eyes are closed and no words spoken. He is stable, you wait by his side, and you quickly draw. Later, three weeks later, still no answers, but Dad is aware with self-determination and checks himself out. At home he rests and is recovering.