My father, Gilbert Merritt, was buried on the last day of summer, September 22, 1990. The last week of his life, I had felt a strong urge to visit him every night at the facility where he found. life, I decided to spend the night with him.
He had been diagnosed with pneumonia and every hour or so a nurse came to see him. I sat down at his bedside. He was sleeping peacefully, it seemed. I called my brother to tell him that I had to go to work at eight o’clock. Could he come and be with dad until I get off work?