Testament.

We’d fall asleep crying and holding hands. We slept in the same bed – their bed – that night, and for a month after he died. As if I would not be as impacted by his death as my mother, the ER doctor gave me a stern look and a warning to calm down in the face of my hysteric distress. She had ridden in the ambulance with him; she was in shock when I met her at Diablo. I don’t remember the actual act of driving their Mercury Bobcat station wagon, only the image of flashing red lights on the back of the ambulance I followed. They lifted him from his chair and lay him on the living room floor; I’m sure they asked us questions about his health, but I can’t recall our responses. Their neighbor was a young RN, but she wouldn’t touch him before the paramedics arrived, in fear, I guess, of litigation, should her actions fail or exacerbate. I stood in the center of the parking lot to guide them to the apartment, weeping to the starry night sky, don’t take him, I just got here, we have things to do, we’re not finished, please please please. She and I made futile attempts to revive him, slumped in his blue easy chair – she, with breathless mouth-to-mouth; me, frantically pounding on his silent chest. I dialed 911; it took forever to hear a voice on the other end of the line. I ran into their bedroom and shouted at my mother to wake up. I finished brushing my teeth in their bathroom and, after closing the faucet, heard an unfamiliar, guttural snore coming from the living room. I leaned over to kiss him goodnight. My father looked up at me and said, “I love you, Zan.”