The moment I signed the notice of death, I knew I had grown up.

one.

at six o'clock in the afternoon on the fourth day of the New year, I borrowed my mother's phone. She spoke hurriedly and asked me, "where is it?"

"what's wrong in town?" I asked rhetorically.

I seemed to expect something, and I gasped when I heard the word "where". Because on the third day of the New year, my father had appendicitis, and the doctor asked him to stay in the hospital for observation, but he refused to say anything.

he always feels that people who are celebrating the Spring Festival can't go to the hospital, which is unlucky.

"your father is in the hospital. Come to the sixth floor of the inpatient department."

because of the Spring Festival, there were no taxis on the road, so I ran directly from the hotel to the hospital. No time to wonder, no time to breathe, I rushed in as soon as the elevator door opened. As soon as I got out of the elevator door, I saw my mother's back, and there was a green sign at the door of the ward that read: "ICU".

my father curled up on the bed and said it hurt.

it hurts so much that I can't hear his word "pain" clearly. His lips were frighteningly white and he covered his chest all the time, with several lines attached to his body, and oxygen entered his nostrils through the ventilator.

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like in the TV series, the machine on the left-hand side has been "dripping", "dripping", "ticking", really harsh.

the doctor came in and said, "patient's family, please come with me to the office."

he asked me who was the patient. I said "son" and asked how old I was. I said "22". He analyzed his father's condition with me at that time, and then told me, "but we don't have any equipment here for further detailed examination, so we can only give him a painkiller injection first." I've got the city hospital out of the car. I'll pick him up here around eight o'clock. "

the doctor asked me if I was clear about the situation, and I answered "yes".

I asked the doctor, "is it that serious?"

he said: "now he has chest pain, not stomachache, not appendicitis."

I answered "Oh".

it was elongated at that moment. I thought I would choke, shake my hands, and then struggle to sign my name, but I didn't. It's just that the flow of time slowed down, and my right hand slowly took the pen, and then my left hand pressed hard on the blank piece of paper. The touch of the pen tip when it touches the paper is transmitted back to the palm of your hand, which is a bit like holding the marshmallow in your hand. You can't force it because it will melt.

then I scribbled a few strokes, as if as long as it didn't look like my name, I could refuse to admit the fact in front of me.

but the moment the doctor took the piece of paper, I knew that I had become the backbone of the family, no matter what the outcome. And that "fact" will not disappear because of my deliberate carelessness. It is like a big stone that no one can push, motionless there:

"my father, it is possible to leave us."

two.

I went back to the ward to see my father. He moved a stool and sat on his left-hand side and asked him, "does it still hurt?"

he heard it, waved his hand and didn't answer me.

I don't know how that hour and a half got by. After thinking about so many questions, I can only remember the beginning of one of them:

"what if …" What am I supposed to do? "

it's an unlucky question, but it's always on my mind because I know I have to be rational. During that time, I went out and made a few phone calls. First, I asked my girlfriend to transfer all the money I had deposited with her to the card, and then told an important friend, "if there is a case, I may have to use the team's money first."

my friend told me, "it doesn't matter, you use it first."

08:00, the ambulance arrived. I helped move my father to the hospital bed and sat in the copilot with my mother.

except "Don't worry, it's okay", I don't know how to comfort my mother, because I'm also the one who needs to be comforted.

the ambulance was driving very fast, and then I found out that the car on the highway would really give way to the ambulance.

look at the cars in front of you, first turn on the right light, and then slowly move to the next road. And the car in the other lane, realizing that we were behind, would also slow down and let the car in front of us cut in front of them. I am not a person who likes to say thank you, but on that part of the way, I silently said thank you many times in my heart.

I have never felt that life is so fragile before, and one more minute and one more second does not have much impact on a person. But that night, when I was sitting in the front seat, I always thought, "get out of the way, please."

I didn't lie to you. I thought about it all the way.

three.

after arriving at another ICU, I went to help my father go through the admission formalities.

the first fee paid in the billing window cost me all 1/10 (but the next few days have exceeded all my reserves).

the original 1/10 was intended to be used for Spring Festival travel. When I was planning a trip, I showed off to others that I was so good now that I could go where I wanted to go without relying on anyone.

at that time, I felt so naive that I didn't even have the ability to resist risks, and I didn't talk about freedom.

but on the way back to ICU, I suddenly felt a little grateful (in terms of medical expenses). Although I have not officially graduated, through the efforts of the previous two years, I already have the qualification to become a "pillar".

at the very least, because of me, our family is able to pay more attention to important things instead of humbly borrowing money from relatives.

after paying the bill, I went back to the door of ICU to wait. My mother asked me, "enough money."Is it? "

I said, "Don't worry."

my sister asked, "is that enough?"

I said, "maybe not enough."

two hours after entering ICU, the doctor said to us, "it has nothing to do with the heart, but the appendix is pierced and needs to be operated on immediately."

We just breathed a sigh of relief. there is nothing we can do about it. We, who have no medical knowledge, can only comfort ourselves with "fortunately it's not a heart problem."

four.

when my dad was pushed into the operating room, it was already one o'clock in the morning that night.

as if I had lost my strength for a moment, I sat on a stool outside the operating room and secretly gasped for breath. I know. That's because I've been pretending to be calm for too long. The burden just fell on my shoulders, and although I didn't get used to it, I began to know how to live with it.

when I got over it, I remembered that we hadn't eaten anything that night. I turned to ask my mother what she wanted to eat, only to find that she was still staring at the green door. The tears have been blown dry, but the tears are still there.

I asked, "Mom, what are you thinking?"

she didn't look at me and said to herself, "I don't know if your father still hurts."

finally.

recently, some readers asked why I stopped writing. In fact, it is because I have been in the hospital with my father these days, so I don't have so much time to write.

at noon a few days ago, I secretly complained to my girlfriend that staying in the hospital was too boring.

she said, "you should cherish it. Ask yourself how long you haven't been with them."

suddenly, an indescribable emotion welled up in my mind. Since I went to college, my relationship with my father seems to have become friends, and we are not familiar with the kind of friends, we never talk on the phone for more than five minutes. He didn't talk about his mind even when he met him. He became fond of talking about me, but I always fell on deaf ears. Always carelessly perfunctory him.

I walked into the ward with packaged meatball porridge and said to my father, "the doctor said to eat less and eat more, only half of it, not meat!"

my father picked the meatballs into my bowl and said, "I know my own body. I think I can eat. Porridge is terrible."

I said, "No explanation, no negotiation. The doctor said you can't eat, but you can't eat. "

he couldn't help giggling as he said "all right".

it turns out that growing up is a "don't eat" between father and son.

when I was young, he forbade me to eat snacks in order to make me healthier. When I grew up, I forbade him to eat snacks in order to make him healthier.

my father is much better, don't worry. Good night.