It started off as one of those same old days. You know the ones — hit the alarm clock, shower, dress, eat your oatmeal and leave for work. After being in the same house and workplace for nearly 30 years, routine is unavoidable.

Don’t get me wrong, that familiarity is calming in a frenzied world, but there are times when the mundane is weary. One day, though, a small event quietly invaded my space and redefined my perspective.

It was a 12-hour work day in the dental office, and the stream of patients was fairly typical. These are people I’ve taken care of for years, and the banter, casual exchanges and updates on family (between rinses) while I clean their teeth is endearing. I extract all sorts of tidbits from those visits,

like recipes, vacation hot spots, parenting advice, new health information and even an occasional off-color joke that quickly spreads through the building.

The gentleman who came in that day was someone I hadn’t seen in my chair in many years. We talked pretty generically until I said, “You remember that I’m an Anderson, don’t you?” I guess I wanted so desperately to remind him that we had this special connection.

He smiled, then paused and went on to tell me that if it hadn’t been for my dad, he would not have had the long life with his father that he did.

His eyes turned glassy as he shook his head and said, “Your dad was a true hero.” It was all I could do to prevent my own tears from spilling. It had been a very long time, almost 40 years, and to think that someone else besides my own family still felt the emotion was, well, powerful.

My dad was born in Gardenville, a small village in West Seneca where we all grew up. The friends he knew as a child were still there into adulthood, and the fishing trip in Canada was a yearly trek that cemented their friendship and continued their closeness.

One morning, a few days after dad had left for his trip, some of those same friends, including this patient’s father, came to our door at 6 a. m. to deliver the tragic news. There had been a propane gas leak in the cabin. Sick himself, my dad returned to the cabin over and over again to rescue his unconscious friends, re-exposing himself to the fumes. The extra stress and strain was too much, even on his healthy 46-year-old body. He died shortly after, leaving five buddies ill, but alive.

Knowing him as much as an 18- year-old could, I wasn’t surprised at his courage and call to duty — that’s the kind of person he was. He never did get a medal or a front-page article, but those who were there that day will never forget the life they owe him.

It was a powerful reminder for me of a man who exemplified strength of character, a man who has always been an inspiration to me and anyone who knew him — an uncelebrated hero who knew all about routine and day-to-day responsibilities as the sole breadwinner with five children.

It was an awakening for me to hear this patient’s memories of my dad, and his heartfelt gratitude. That loss so long ago for me was someone else’s celebration.

It started off as a routine day for my dad and his fishing pals. We never know what any day will bring, do we? I now savor those ordinary days of sameness and treasure them as strength and reserves for times when I may be called upon to make a difference.