Growing up my dad occasionally worked the night shift.  Through my child perspective, it was awesome.  It was the only time I was allowed to sleep in my parents’ bedroom at nighttime.  Their bed seemed massive and luxurious, and it was a special treat for me when those nights popped up on the calendar. I would always sleep on my dad’s side – keeping it warm until he arrived back home. When I crawled into bed next to my mom the night my dad passed, I couldn’t help but think back to my little girl self.  Borrowing my dad’s side of the bed was…

My mom called.   Her voice was different.  The fear and concern were palpable.  I don’t remember her asking.  I just remember telling her we’d be there.  I talked to my brother and sister immediately, we organized who’d drive with whom, and we were there by my parents’ sides.   It was surreal.   I felt the heaviness of that Intensive Care Unit immediately.  There was a cruel sadness and desperation that permeated the floor.  Faint sounds of beeping in between pain and distress.  It was quiet – just a low hum of activity until it was fiercely interrupted by a wail of tears, or the sound of chairs scratching…