The digital clock at my bedside is yours. It startled you awake early each weekday morning for work. I can't bear to hear the alarm, so use it only to mark time's passage.

Today I watched it click to 5:00 A.M. 

Eight years ago the machines keeping your body alive were turned off at 5. Today I watched each minute pass, remembering your face, the last beats of your valiant heart.

Silence. 

Waiting.

Rules and laws.

I remember everything.

5:05.

She said, "Time of death, 5:05 A.M.".

November 6, 2005.

This morning your life slides through my mind from beginning to end. Precious memories. Sweet baby gurgles. Funny boy, mowing the carpet. On and on through the years, good and bad. Laughter and tears. Music. Tall young man. Heartache. Laughter. Life.

It was too short.

Paul David, forever my baby boy, my tall young son. There's no one like you in my life. I think about you every day. I miss you every day.

I'll honor you by being me, because you hated hypocrisy. I'll honor you by raising your daughter and telling her about you. I'll honor you by trying to be a better friend, because so many called you "my best friend".

The minutes continue to click on by and I must start the day. The little girl with your eyes will soon be awake.

Another day of life. Another day without you. And yet you're always here. Paul. My only son. I miss you.

Memories are triggered by so many things.  Passing a particular place as you drive. A smell. Words.

Words I heard on the news this weekend sparked a memory that happened eight years ago today.

When a trauma occurs you later find that there are HUGE chunks of time you can't recall to memory.  What I've discovered, though, is that certain MOMENTS are crystal clear.

This weekend when I heard the words "he's been unresponsive since..." I was immediately transported back to the ICU unit at St. Francis Hospital, November 5, 2005. 

The room was quiet, and somewhat dark, except for the glow of the monitors posted at Paul's head. He was quiet, as he'd been ever since I'd seen him, attached to machines, his body warm, but not moving. I sat on one side of his bed, holding his limp hand, stained and calloused from hard work and guitar playing.

On the other side of the bed sat a doctor.  The only doctor I liked during this entire ordeal (although I have to add that the nurses were all ANGELS, very special to me to this day). He was young & compassionate.  (I found out later he was the neighbor of JoBeth Rood, who told him that Paul used to mow her yard when they lived in our neighborhood, and that she and I are friends.) 

He'd been explaining all the medical facts to me, what had happened, how it affected Paul.  I promise to not tell you all that.

The part of the memory that feels like it happened yesterday, and that the newscaster's words brought me back to were these:

Me: "So, is he in a coma?"

Dr.: "No.  He's been unresponsive since he was brought in."

There was a period of silence as I processed all he'd just told me, along with the answer to my question.  It verified what God had told me hours earlier.  But I had to ask, and the doctor waited, knowing I had to ask. He kept his eyes on mine.

Me: "So. There's no hope."

His eyes continued to look into mine.  He shook his head at the same time he said, "no."

My memory stops at that point.    Honestly, I have no idea if we talked longer, or if he left me alone to cry and ponder.  That's what I mean about huge chunks of memory being gone. 

My friend, Karen Werner, once asked if it was a hard decision to decide to donate Paul's organs.  I said, "No.  The hard thing is to accept the fact that your son is gone and there is no hope."

For me, that was the moment in that dark and quiet ICU room, sitting with my son and a kind doctor.