Laughing so hard it hurt, Dad didn’t mind the pain | Dimon Kendrick-Holmes

First of all, I’m thankful it’s 2025. You don’t hear people say that often. Since at least 2020, everybody’s been talking about what crazy times we live in, etc.

But I recently had an appendectomy, and I’m happy to report that I’m fully recovered.

You know, because it’s 2025.

I wish I had a dollar for every time in recent weeks somebody reminded me that if it were 100 years ago, I would have died.

Or if it was 10 years ago or how ever long it’s been since laparoscopic appendectomies became the norm, I would now have a 3-inch scar on my stomach and I wouldn’t be feeling quite as hot as I do now.

Instead, I have three small pin-pricks.

I also wouldn’t have gone home two hours after surgery.

I’m thankful for modern medicine. I’m also thankful for a story I remembered while waiting to go into surgery.

It happened 27 years ago, which I know for a fact because the Atlanta Falcons were having a great season and would end up going to the Super Bowl. That November, in 1998, my father was in the hospital in Alabama having his gallbladder removed.

My wife, Bess, and I were living in Tennessee, near the Kentucky line, and at that point we had half of our four children.

Dad’s surgery was late on a Saturday night, and on Sunday morning I woke up and decided to drive down to Alabama to surprise him.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that we had two small children in the house, both of whom were still in diapers. But the trip may have even been Bess’ idea. Like most wives, she has a history of talking me out of things I’d like to do, but she’s also had a knack for talking me into doing things that I don’t think I want or need to do, but afterward I’m glad I did them.

This was one of those things.

So I made the six-hour drive from Clarksville, Tennessee, to Valley, Alabama, and walked into the hospital and surprised my dad.

He was lying in the bed watching the Atlanta Falcons, which that year was a fun thing to do.

So we had a good time watching the Falcons, and they handily beat whatever team they were playing. Then my dad suggested we go for a walk in the halls of the hospital.

My dad was a big, strong guy who liked a physical challenge. The nurse helped him get to his feet, and we took off down the hall. As I remember it, he was rolling along some sort of bag that either dispensed or received liquids. I’m not 100% sure of that.

But I am 100% sure that our stroll down the hospital halls was unforgettable.

My dad and I had had our ups and downs, like fathers and sons do, and I’m sure I was a disappointment to him in some ways. But one thing I could do was make him laugh.

And that day on our walk, with him possibly rolling the IV or whatever it was behind him, I was reminding him to keep that gown closed in the back, and as he put one foot in front of the other, I was making bionic noises like the ones the "Six Million Dollar Man" Steve Austin made when he ran really fast. Because, you know, he was bionic.

And my father started laughing and he couldn’t stop, and this made his stomach hurt. Because, you know, he’d just had his gallbladder removed. In a rural Alabama hospital.

Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

And many years later, when he was fighting Parkinson’s and was no longer big and strong, he’d get a twinkle in his eye and he’d say, “Do you remember that time you came to visit me in the hospital when I had my gallbladder removed?”

“You mean when we went for the walk?” I said.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I haven’t laughed that much in my whole life.”

And I’d remember that the laughter caused him pain, and I’d be about to apologize. But then he’d say this:

“Man, what a great day!”

Right now, I’m thankful for that memory. Rest in peace, Dad.