On the morning my father died, he woke up and told my mother that he didn’t feel well and needed to get to the hospital right away. It did not take long to get him to where he could be made comfortable, but there was nothing that could be done. His life systems were shutting down. People were called, and a couple of friends managed to get by in time. According to my mother, the last words she remembers him saying, acknowledging the presence of some who had arrived, were: “I love it when pretty women come to visit me.” Moments later he lapsed into a coma, and died shortly thereafter.
Note: The picture is an oil painting of my father made in the 1950s, taken from a professional black and white photograph. The likeness is excellent. It hung above the fireplace in our home for many years.