One thing I had done: my dad absolutely loved his jazz. So I had jazz playing, every minute of every day – just in case he
could hear it through his coma. Loud enough that it could be heard over conversation. That Friday night my sister told me I
needed to go down the hall and get a decent night’s sleep – she would take up the family room vigil. When I got up early
the next morning and walked down the hall, though, the first thing I noticed was that the music was turned way, way
down. She had turned it down to fall asleep. I walked in the family room and realized my father was dead. My very, very
first and utterly dismayed thought was “Oh no… you turned down the music. Oh No!!! Oh no….. the day the music died.”
That week was a horrible whirl. Two funerals, back to back.
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