Sunday evening: Dad’s ex-wife calls. He's had a stroke and has been taken to a hospital.   I call my two brothers; one in Massachusetts and the other in Florida and tell them. Lots of tears with Boston brother.  Not so much with Florida – he is addicted to his street methadone and pretty dull.

Monday morning: Boston brother and I meet in Detroit airport at 8:00 am, rent car and drive across town to hospital.  Dad is conscious, lying in bed, and greets us both by name. That's a pleasant surprise. He suffered a hemorrhagic stroke. He is 86 years old, and was living independently in his own house until yesterday. We spend the day and night in the CCU.

Tuesday: I talk brother into flying back to Boston and working and coming back Friday.  I stay.  No word from Florida brother.  In CCU until about 1:00 am and go to Dad’s house to sleep a little.  He has been pretty groggy all day.

Wednesday: Pretty alert at times; other times groggy.  MRI has been same X3 which is a good sign.  No further bleeding since initial stroke on Sunday. Another long day and night in CCU.

Thursday: PT people get Dad out of bed and he stands with aid of walker and them holding him .  Catheter removed and all is well.  Progress. Another long day and night in CCU.

Friday: PT gets Dad to walk (with assistance) about ten feet and sit in easy chair and he feeds self.  Very positive day. Boston brother arrives late in day.  I am feeling excited about Dad’s progress and tell L all about amazing day!!

Saturday: We both arrive in morning and Dad has a cough, looks pale and tired. Pneumonia.  DAMN ! Long long day for Dad. That evening around 11:00pm I find the hospital chapel and sit quietly, and pray for guidance, and some knowledge of what’s going on.  I return to learn that his attending physician had called and spoken with brother and told him the pneumonia was serious and this was not looking good.  I really didn’t think I’d get an answer that quickly. We leave at 1:00 am to get some rest.  Ed, the CCU nurse, promises he’ll call if anything changes.

Sunday: I wake up with a start at 3:44 am – have to pee. On return to room phone rings.  Ed: “Not looking good. Change for the worse.  You better come in.”  We are there in 12 minutes. Oxygen on.  Ed pulls open Dad’s left eyelid to show me a dilated and nonresponsive-to-light pupil.  "Probably another bleeding stroke episode" he says. I glance at the monitor.  Sinus rhythm irregular and heartbeat rapid.  BP 88/64 – lower than entire week but okay. Respiration 24. Oxygen absorption low 90’s. Not good but okay.

Ed calls me into hallway. He verifies health directive – “DNR.” Return to bedside and Ed says the vasopressin drip is the only thing maintaining his arterial pressure.  He wanted Dad to stay alive until we arrived. I am beginning to get it. It’s  5:15am and the vasopressin has been discontinued. The hospitalist confirms the advanced directive with me - again.  Ed softly explains that they normally would have intubated  by now; however, we would let death come on its own. They leave my brother and me alone for the final hour.  I cradle Dad in my arms.  We place an iPod of his grandson singing with the Harvard Glee Club next to his ear (Hallelujah) , and we tell him how loved he is, and what a great life he  had, and how we will miss him.  I glance at the monitor constantly.  Suddenly I feel the warmth rush out of Dad’s face and I glance up.  Sinus rhythm irregular, BP dropping rapidly, respirations slowing. I say to L “That’s it. I can feel life leaving him. He's cooler already.  Touch his face.” L declines and is crying softly, as am I. The monitor stops recording BP, but heart is still beating and faint respiration. “He’s left us.  He’s gone."  L touches him.  I hug Dad and cry and cry and cry. And that’s it. Peaceful death. Cold body. It is 6:25 am.

I walk to the chapel again.  Alone. Amazing Grace coming softly through the speakers. All is well even though it’s not.

L and I gather Dad's few things and leave.  We go to the local IHOP – our favorite childhood restaurant that is still serving pancakes in the same place 50 years running. Surprisingly, they taste good.  And we head out on a blustery gray morning to get some sleep, and then tend to business.

Monday: We go to funeral home to identify the body prior to cremation. It is in a simple wooden cremation box.  He looks great. In fact, he looks way more relaxed and rested than yesterday.  “This is weird,”  I am thinking.  “Do dead bodies change like this?”  I cradle Dad’s cheek in my hand and lean over and kiss his forehead – and he is so very very cold. "Of course dummy – he’s been refrigerated," I laugh to myself. All is as it should be, and all is well, and Dad’s soul is at rest.