My father, Frank, died at St. Agnes with a Bible on his chest and a thank-you note tucked in Jeremiah, but it was not addressed to any of us. The chaplain handed it to my brother at 6:12 and said, “He asked me to give this to the Millers.” We are the Lowrys. By noon, I had found nine visitor stickers in his drawer and a photograph of a family I had never met.
Dad had been in Room 318 for sixteen days. Congestive heart failure is not dramatic in the way people think. It is waiting. It is paper cups of ice chips, …
My father, Frank, died at St. Agnes with a Bible on his chest and a thank-you note tucked in Jeremiah, but it was not addressed to any of us. The chaplain handed it to my brother at 6:12 and said, “He asked me to give this to the Millers.” We are the Lowrys. By noon, I had found nine visitor stickers in his drawer and a photograph of a family I had never met. Read More