(Sunday, June 7, 2026)
I attended my neighbor Vicky’s memorial in the early afternoon on June 6. Vicky had died of a mysterious pneumonia. My father died last night, on June 6. His cause of death was the decline of his lungs, aggravated by severe COPD.
I drove up to Cambridge Hospital on Friday, as soon as I heard about my father’s fall and his broken femur. I don’t always rush up to visit my parents when they are hospitalized, but I had an instinct that this could be the last time I would see him alive. Which it was.
Yesterday morning I biked with Cullan to watch Wyn’s first soccer practice. As I was sitting on the grass at Diamond Lake Pearl Park, I heard one of the coaches ask his team mates to share their names. One boy said “Edwin,” a name I had not heard in years. My grandfather’s name is Edwin Luther, and my father’s name is James Edwin Luther. I wondered about that synchronicity, if something serious would soon happen with my dad.
The orthopedic at Mercy Hospital decided not to do surgery on a 92-year-old patient, so a social worker found a rehab center where the plan was for my father to do weeks of physical therapy. Dad was going to move to rehab on Monday. He remained relatively alert, reacting positively to the pain meds, but on Saturday evening everything started to fall apart. He threw up, and the nurses used a tube to clear his throat. They did an x-ray to assure that his lungs were clear. They were. But his stomach began to bloat dramatically. Fluid probably pored into his lungs. He died very quickly, a few minutes before I arrived back at the hospital.
When I entered room 5630, everyone was sobbing, except me and our mother. My father’s blue eyes were wide open. His mouth too. After everyone left, I kissed his forehead and gave him a prayer.
