Entering his room with the briefest of introductions— ‘‘I’m Doctor Johnson, the hospitalist on call’’—she went to his bedside and placed her stethoscope on his cold chest. She listened for what she knew she would not hear. She used the flashlight on her iPhone to verify that his pupils did not react. Touching the side of his face, she softly said, ‘‘He’s gone’’ and confirmed what I already knew: my father was dead. But gone? Yes, parts of him were gone: his laughter; our frequent phone conversations, when he would reminisce or talk about the weather; his day-old coffee, prepared the night before and heated the next morning in the microwave; and the carefully selected, wrapped, and mailed birthday gifts for each of his 15 great grandchildren. Yes, these are all gone. But some of him remains.
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