At the time that my son-in-law, Phil,
was trying to wake Lauren and then
frantically calling 911, Rob and I were
trying to get a few more hours’ sleep
before one of the more stressful aspects
of my job: doing a live radio show from
a foreign country in a hotel ballroom
filled with 50 or 60 contest winners.
Deep into preparation mode, I barely
noticed when our lead promotions
staffer, Jackie Gilgannon, approached
with a concerned look on her face.
“There’s a Patricia somebody on
the phone from Toronto who wants to
talk to you,” she said in a vaguely con-
fused voice.
“Shirakawa?” I asked, knowing that
Lauren’s stepmom-in-law was the only
Patricia who might be trying to reach us.
Rob rose to take the call in the lobby. I
thought it was some kind of good news;
I’m always expecting something won-
derful to happen. After all, that’s how my
whole life had unfolded. And so it didn’t
occur to me to worry when five minutes
ticked by and Rob hadn’t returned. I
recall moving through that ballroom,
which was filled with sleepy but happy
listeners, many of whom raised their
coffee cups in anticipation of a fun
show. They smiled as I passed by,
offering up a cheery “Good morning!”
In a few moments, the ability to
recall details and each listener’s name
would fail me; quite frankly, I’m not
sure it has returned to this day. Maybe
it never will, and I suppose I’m gratefulfor the inability to remember some of
the worst moments, but I’ve managed
to piece together what happened next
by sweeping up shards of memories
and trying to place them into some
kind of cohesive order.
When I emerged from the ballroom
and entered the hotel’s lobby, I spotted
Jackie again, tears streaming down her
cheeks, her eyes filled with what I can
only describe as horrified compassion,
her mouth open in shock. By then I was
convinced it was bad news, and myTHE PUBLIC OUTPOURING OF GRIEF
SET THE TONE FOR A DISPLAY OF SADNESS
THAT WOULD CONTINUE FOR WEEKS.rd.ca 93