Saturday morning, July 7, 2001

That night I slept on the family room futon with Eden, the first of many such nights. (Eden stayed with us until we went Atlanta for the last memorial service, Sunday, July 22, 2001).

About 6 a.m. Saki came and stuck her nose in my face.

"How odd," I thought. It was too early for a walk. Too early for breakfast. And she never put her nose in my face when she wanted to wake me up.

"I wonder if I just got a message," I thought to myself.

I got up and put on a pot of coffee, pulled in the newspaper, ate one or two bites of something. Eden stirred not long after.

"Do me a favor?" I asked. "Call ICU and ask them...? I think it's over."

He called.

Jeremy had been disconnected from life support sometime in the early morning hours. The transplantation followed immediately thereafter. The LifeGift people handed the body over to the mortuary probably sometime between 5-6 a.m.



On the other hand, I'd probably look at all of this very differently if I'd been hatched instead of being born from a womb. Who knows what reality dogs and other creatures perceive? I'm inclined to think that they can see more than we do.

The waiting was over.

It was time to work.

To be continued


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