Seventeen years ago this week (the 26th), my dad had a stroke that left him in a coma from which he never recovered - three days later he stopped breathing, though he was in a vegetative state the whole time.
It was towards the end of a summer during which he and my mom were daycare for the then six year old Bus Kid. Her and grandpa would literally spend 12 hours a day all by themselves, mom worked five minutes away, and home for lunch then after work. Her and Grandpa became best friends.
Mom called that Sunday morning, I raced over, saw the scene with the paramedics and the state he was in. Raced home, and told the Wife to cancel shopping plans, we need to get to the hospital. I walked across the hall to the Kid’s room to say we wouldn’t be going to the mall, that we had to go see Grandpa at the hospital.
Cool as a cucumber: “No we don’t have to hurry Daddy, he’s already gone”
Gulp.
“No, really, he’s just sick and we’ll go keep grandma company”
“Yeah daddy, he came to see me while you were out just now. He said Goodbye and gave me a hug. He had on his funny t-shirt with Garfield on it that I bought him and his tire-shoes (huaraches)”
Very, very cold chill down the spine as I recall seeing the Garfield shirt, and huaraches on the stretcher as they took Dad to the hospital.