Snapshots

Friday morning - Grandma Cowley's history opened to the page with a telegram: "November 5, 1939. Dad passed away at 12:50." Chris commenting on it. Stopping and thinking about receiving such a message.

Noting the date: May 15, 2009.

Friday afternoon - Starting to take everything out of the closet and feeling a need to talk to Mom. Knowing, as I dialed, that we wouldn't be discussing closet cleaning.

The compelling feeling to go to Provo, and Chris urging: "Just go."

Dad, sleeping in the Jetta. Under the tree, in the shade, a slight breeze, looking so relaxed, his breathing deep and steady.

Jemma meowing and howling and cock-a-doodle-dooing to wake him.

Coming back with a sandwich for Mom, turning the corner and seeing the police cars, fire truck, ambulance. Wondering what could have possibly happened, not being able to imagine.

Kristin running to meet me and quickly filling me in, "He's not breathing...."

Standing on the lawn, arm around Mom, watching paramedics try to resuscitate. His eyes, open and fixed. His chest, moving up and down. Watching them work quickly and quietly. Lifting him onto the stretcher. Texting Chris. The siren as the ambulance left quickly. Hope lifting.

Making a statement to the police. Not knowing. Hoping.

Calling David, "Dad's on his way to the ER. I'll call you later."

Dry mouth. Pounding heart.

Driving Mom to the hospital. Talking, nervous.

Sitting in a consultation room with Mom and Kristin and Ben. Taking a phone call from Brian. A social worker with doleful eyes. Sipping water. Waiting. Not knowing. Still hoping.

The doctor asking, "What happened...today?" His words: "...slipped away."

Mom crying. Jessica crying. Not crying. Stunned.

Calling Chris.

Calling Mark.

Calling David.

Going to the room. Trauma Room B. Feeling the cold from behind its curtain. Seeing him.

Squeezing his hand. Cold, soft. He looks like he's sleeping, but so still. Seeing his shoes, the posture of his feet, the bits of grass on the sheet, the red board still under him. Feeling his hair, his shoulder. Still him. So soon.

President Warner suddenly there and reassuringly, without hesitation, saying, "It was just time.... Everything has led up to this moment.... It was divinely orchestrated...." Looking at Mom's hand holding Dad's he said, "You will hold that hand again, and it will squeeze you back."

Crying.

People coming in and out. Brian, Jessica and Jack. Ben and Kristin. Bishop Chipman. Jeff Ogden. The social worker with the sad and pleading eyes. Lorien in the hall with tears. Texting Chris to please come.

Feeling cold. Mom on the phone, going to give his corneas. Thanks for that. What are we doing? Wanting to leave because maybe it would all be different and not wanting to leave because it's not different.

Walking outside, feeling disoriented. Running to meet Jordan and Chris. Jordan's tears.

Seeing the man from the mortuary and not wanting to see him with his table and red cloth.

Hugging Dad and sobbing. Holding. Feeling him so close. He was close.

Later - at Kristin's. Quiet. Hayley and Jordan on the top bunk talking quietly, sniffles. Jemma with a tear dropping from her eye. Reluctantly saying goodbye to Chris.

And later still - At home with Mom. Not sleeping. Thinking, thinking, thinking.