My mother and my godmother Veda walked into the house on a cold January night 36 years ago. Another aunt on my mom’s side, Lucy, was also there.
They had been taking turns keeping watch with Mom at the hospital for almost two weeks, after an aortic aneurysm dropped my dad like a bale of old newspapers at the bottom of the stairs.
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In a coma after a risky and then-experimental aortic bypass, he had shown signs of awakening. But then the hospital called with that dreaded “please send someone as soon as possible to be with Mrs. Baker” call.
And so the women on both sides of the family gathered. Lucy went to the hospital. Pop’s maiden-aunt sister stayed with me.
“He’s gone,” Veda said.
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I was standing at the sink with Nibby. The news broke over us like a wave.
Her brother was gone, my father was gone, a husband was gone, a brother-in-law was gone, a longtime friend was gone. Gone.
A clump of grief formed in the kitchen, and we all got stuck in it for a long, long time. Some time later, I came back to myself and realized I had been wiping my tears, and theirs, with a dirty dishcloth.
It’s a very odd sensation, chuckling sadly while crying, but we all agreed that Pop would think… would have thought it was the funniest thing ever.
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“This train terminates at the next station. All change, please.”
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