If You Need Me...Don't

My father is a wuss. I can't say it in any plainer language than that. Whenever my brother's or I would get hurt, he would always grab his hair, scream "Good Gracious!" and run in the opposite direction.

Once when I was about six, I was outside on the back patio playing circus with my dog. My father was out in the garden hoeing and my mother was inside washing dishes. I was using a heavy concrete block as a pedestal, and I was trying to get the dog on top of it. As I was situating the dog, the block began to fall and in an effort to save my pet, the block landed on my hand. I can remember looking at it grow ghastly white before blood began pouring out of my fingers. I screamed. My dad stopped hoeing and looked over at me. I began running toward him. He stayed there long enough to see me holding out a bloody hand, before he picked up his hoe and began to run. Away from me. I screamed, "Daddy!" in an attempt to make him stop. He picked up the pace. My mother heard me screaming and came outside to find her six year old daughter chasing her husband around the garden. I can still see little puffs of dirt being kicked up by my father's shoes. It literally looked as if he was running so fast, his shoes were smoking.
When my mother caught up with me, she had a look of utter disgust on her face. Not for me but for my father, who had finally stopped running and was warily watching the proceedings from a safe distance away, while continuing to hold on to his hoe.
"You are ridiculous!" She screamed at him. "This baby needs you and your running away!"
"Foot! You know I can't stand the sight of blood!" He yelled from across the garden. I could barely hear him from so far a distance.
My mother scooped me up and carried me to the doctor. I ended up requiring stitches and breaking several fingers. When I woke up the next morning, my dad was sitting on my bed waiting for me to wake up so he could explain why he ran away.

And then there was the time I got choked...