He'd died unexpectedly. He always said, “If I have to die, let it be in my sleep, or half-time.” Well he got his wish, or did he foretell his death? He died while watching television, propped up on the sofa, lounger fully reclined, feet upon an ottoman, drink (ice-tea) in the cup holder, cell phone right next to him, left-side, just as he'd always liked. He'd always call one of his buddies, his “homies” as he always said at half time, as if they couldn't or didn't see the same game that he was seeing. “They always synchronized their television games, all five of them; just so they could call each other and talk about the game, “Typical male-bonding, a “bro' thing,” my mom, always said.” It was his favorite channel, his favorite show, ESPN. I think it was a Basketball game on. I don't recall who was playing. Pah, Pah, my Dad, loved sports! Without fail, every Sunday, he'd be glued to some ESPN game, didn't matter what game, any game would do.

I'll never forget how he looked. He appeared to be sleeping, as though he had just dozed off, except he was neither snoring, like usual, nor breathing. I kept saying his name over and over again, “Pah, Pah; Pah, Pah,”---I got no response. I then touched him, his shoulder. He was stiff; still no response. I remember saying, (didn't know at the time if I said it out loud or not), “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God!”, I said it over, and over, and over again, just now recalling that I got louder and louder each time I said it. My mom came out of the office looking perturbed and anxious, saying, “What's all the noise about, what's wrong?” I couldn't say anything for a moment, it felt like hours. “Mom, I said. “It's Pah, Pah, I can't wake him up.” My mom seemed to have moved as if by magic, I swear, one moment she was by the office door and the next she was right beside me. She grabbed my dad's shoulders, none-too-gently, shaking him, while saying over and over again, “Donald, Donald, (my dads name) Wake up! Wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up!” He was now sort of slumped over, but still sitting up. My mom suddenly said, “Call 911, Call 911,” saying this to no one in particular. At first, I did nothing. I stood there frozen, then I could hear her again saying, “Call 911.”

My sister, Kadee, called 911 from her bedroom phone. I still couldn't move. Everything appeared to be happening in slow motion, and voices and sounds seemed to be far off. My sister got 911 on the phone and must have put the call on speaker because we all heard the female dispatcher directing us to lay him flat on the floor, with no pillow, tilt his head up slightly and perform CPR on him. My sister, who seemed remarkably calm, said, “Mom, do it, do it now.” For a moment, which again felt like hours---no one moved. My mom suddenly sprang into action, bending over my dad, tipping his head up slightly, just as the omnipotent voiced dispatcher said, and she gave him several mouth breaths. I don't recall how many. She then said, very loudly, “He's still not breathing, Oh my God! He's still not breathing!” The voice on the phone repeated, “Just keep breathing for him, just keep breathing for him,” then saying, that EMS was on the way, but, “not to stop, to keep on going until EMS arrives, and takes over---no matter what, just don't stop,” the voice said. My mom didn't stop for what seemed like hours, but was actually only 7-10 minutes---I was later told.

I could now hear the shrill, loud siren of the ambulance and moved toward the front door, toward the sound, which seemed, in my mind, such a long way off. I remember stepping outside, surprised to see not only an ambulance but a big, massive fire truck as well. I remember thinking, “We didn't call about a fire. Why are they here?” I moved by automation, directing everybody into the house. Now there were people everywhere, dozens of people, it seemed. There were policemen, firemen, EMS guys, and now a lot of neighbors too, Len, from across the street, Pat from down the street, even my best bud, Wayne, I still don't know how he found out, and all, all at my small house, in my too small living-room, looking at my Pah, Pah, lying there, lifeless, asleep on the floor, he hadn't been declared deceased yet.

They (the EMS men) shooed my mom away from my dad and took over ministering to him. They used some kind of small machine on him (I later found out it was a defibrillator), but still, he didn't---wasn't breathing. “Wake up Pah, Pah, I pleaded, Wake up,” But he didn't, and he never would again.

The men stopped working on my dad, looked at my mom, and said, “I'm afraid he's gone.” My family and I said nothing for what seemed like a long time. There was a deafening quietness amongst all present. Where did everyone go? My family and I just looked from one to the other, giant, tears welling up in our eyes, streaming down our faces, and spilling onto our saturated shirts, then, as if synchronized all eyes were on my mom, who said, “Oh no, No-o, he's just sleeping, you're wrong, my mom insisted that he's just sleeping,” she insisted. That's when I lost it---I started bawling and pacing the floor, back and forth, back and forth, but I was rooted (it seemed) to the living-room.

The officers rose in unison and each one by one, took my mom's arms on either side of her and directed her to the couch. They all sat. One of the men said, “No Ma'am, he's not sleep, he's gone.” He then said something to his partner, and they both got up to talk (huddle) amongst themselves---the Officers, EMS guys, and the Firemen. I'm not sure what they were saying to each other, but, I do remember one of the men telling my mom that my dad had been deceased about an hour before we'd even contacted 911. I don't know how they could tell this, but my mom still said, he (my dad) was just sleeping. Again, the EMS men (both) told my mom that my dad had passed away, they, in fact, everyone, was very careful not to say the actual words that my mom, my sister and I did not want to hear, out loud, he's dead.

My Pah, Pah (Dad) died, Sunday, June 9th, 2013, between the hours of 5:00 PM – 7:00 PM, in the early evening, at home, in the living room, on the sofa. He'd just quietly passed away, without pain or even consciousness, one of the EMS men surmised. I will never forget the day---an ideal, typical Sunday California day---sunny, warm and lazy! But now, for me and forever more, a “melancholy” Sunday!

That day, I can't forget! I see it over, and over, and over again---still!