A Hell of a Day

My dad is sleeping and snoring now. Doped on a strong dose of morphine. My mother is in bed, in my sister’s room. I am sitting by my dad’s hospital bed. I am exhausted.

Today was, without question, one of the longest and toughest of my life—and, I am sure, my mother’s as well. But it was far from the worst for either of us. That one is impending.

It was a day where I began discussing arrangments for managing the inevitable academic media circus that will occur in the wake of my father’s death. I was relieved to find out that the University of California has a protocol for fielding such professional inquiries. All I will have to do is refer any such calls that come to my parents’ home.

It was a day where I broached the subject of a memorial service. Here, too, I was told that third parties will intervene. Cal, in collaboration with the L.S.B. Leakey Foundation, will organize a memorial.

It was a day where I had a close friend of my father sob in my arms, saw several more of his friends on the verge of tears, and heard from my mom of yet another friend crying—a gentleman whom I have always felt to be very strong. I am very glad that my father is so loved by so many.