My dad fell down the stairs today. I wasn’t as worried about the fall or the bloody scalp laceration as I was about the disorientation he’s had since yesterday. After the fall he just kept saying, “I just want to sleep,” and curled up on the living room floor.

I called the advice nurse and she just told me to call 911. The EMTs in the ambulance suggested we go to the trauma center, just in case, and after we got there, they raised him to a Level 1 Trauma. I went outside to call my mom and my sister and by the time I got back I was told my dad had been intubated and had been given CPR.

Apparently my dad had an aortic dissection. They called in the heart surgeon from home but he wasn’t too optimistic about operating on an almost 91-year-old man. We all decided that surgery would just be torturing an old man. My dad passed away around 5:07PM, but the voodoo ritual performed by the doctor didn’t end until 5:19PM, so that’s his official time of death. 5:19PM, April 15, tax day.

My mom and sister and I were always afraid that he’d have a hard death, and I’m glad it was fairly quick and painless. If you’ve seen a picture of the nest he has for a desk, you’ll understand another fear of mine that they’d have to shovel out all his crap to get him out of his bed. Fortunately, it was much easier than all that. The biggest surprise is that they didn’t even ask for a signature after his death; they just wanted a phone number and the funeral home we wanted to use.

I’m off to be a pallbearer for my friend’s mom tomorrow and I just heard from another friend that his girlfriend just dumped him. This is not an auspicious start to the week.