I don't know about you, but when I think about this parenting column, I always approach it from the perspective of me being the parent.

But the other day I got a call, and instantly I became the child again. I was reminded that even though we age and may have our own families, we always remain someone's kid.

The call was from my brother. He was calling to let me know our dad had a heart attack. Again.

A little background: My parents divorced when I was very young. My brothers went with Dad, I went with Mom.

My father has never really been a part of my life, save the handsome, larger-than-life, imaginary character I made him out to be when I was little (strikingly similar to John Wayne, when I think about it now).

He sent few cards, made even fewer calls, and over the years, that imaginary character dissolved into nothing. I've seen him maybe 10 times in the past 20 years.

As much as I've tried to not feel any anger or resentment about his absence, I know that way down inside, I've remained a little hurt about the whole thing.

Not that I sit around and mope or anything; rather, I pretty much forget him -- except on Father's Day and his birthday ... and then I feel guilty about not thinking of him.

So the call caught me off guard. I hung up a little stunned, then began to cry -- which told me that even under the hurt and anger, buried way under the
I-don't-really-care attitude, there was still some feeling for him on my part.

The following day, my brother called again to let me know a triple bypass was scheduled for later that morning.

I hedged about what I would do. Should I fly to Montana to see him? If I do, I'll miss my daughter's dance recital. What if he doesn't make it? I felt guilty for not feeling an overwhelming need to get on the next flight and rush to his side. I ended up booking a late flight to Billings, Mont., that day.

The next morning, I waited in the intensive care unit with my two brothers, an aunt and uncle, and my dad's wife. Finally we were allowed in, two at a time. It was close to 10 a.m. before it was my turn.

Nervous -- not only because I hadn't seen him in several years, but also because of the whole beeping monitors, dripping tubes, patients-who-look-really-awful thing -- my brother and I approached his bed.

He was dozing, and I looked at his giant, 6-foot-4 frame, which somehow seemed small under the white sheet and the numerous wires hooked to him. He looked so vulnerable, so helpless.

Standing there, in the two to three seconds it took him to open his eyes, something inside of me began to shift.

His eyes opened and recognition lit his face.

"Hey there," he said. "What are you doing here?"

I said something about being worried, and wanting to see him. Then I let my brother talk as I looked at my dad.

My mind had its own conversation. "That's your father. You're half him. And even if he's never treated you like it, you are his little girl, and he's your dad."

And suddenly I knew, even though I've been gypped these last 40-some-odd years, that I loved him.

Later, walking many thoughtful miles around town, it struck me how quickly the resentment, that feeling of hurt, fled. It was almost as if that little pit of anger was just waiting for a reason to go.

Over the next few days, my father's condition improved dramatically. He was moved to the ambulatory unit and began taking walks. While terribly worn out by these jaunts in the beginning, he said he could feel his strength coming back by the hour.

Four days after the surgery, he was sent home.

I was already back in Yakima. Dad and I never really talked about anything, besides the usual "How are your kids?" "What have you been up to?" chatter.

I don't know if it really mattered to him that I came.But more importantly, it mattered to me. Because seeing him lying there, seemingly so fragile, with a big, scary cut down his chest, I was reminded about the importance of forgiving.

I was reminded that "blood is thicker than water," and what that really means. I was reminded that, yes, he's still sort of a jerk, but he's also still my dad.

This eventually got me around to me thinking about being a mom. I thought about how when my babies were babies, I'd tell them I love them 500 times a day, but I don't tell them anymore.

And how sometimes I get mad at them -- and stay mad -- for quite a while. And, as corny as it may sound, I thought about how fragile life really is, and how everything can change in an instant.

This is the part of the column where I usually tell you how I'm going to change my ways. But aside from telling my kids I love them a little more often -- which is met by the older ones with, "Why are you saying that?"-- I'm not sure much will change on the outside.

I know I'll still get angry at them, and sometimes, stay mad for a while. I guess that's just life. But inside, something has changed. I think the anger and resentment about my dad is gone. I no longer have to carry that around, which is good because it serves no purpose, really.

Someday, hopefully not soon, my dad will pass on. And though I may not know if he loved me, at least I'll know that I loved him.

* This column was made possible through a partnership between Yakima Valley Memorial Hospital Community Education program and Christina McCarthy. Christina is a freelance writer and mother of three children. She and her husband live, work and play in and around Yakima. She can be reached at kidscount@fairpoint.net.