To all:
My dad, Curt Thure Pearson, passed away at 9:15 p.m. Saturday, Jan. 13, after more than a month of hospitalization following complications of carotid artery surgery. He was a 87.
He died peacefully in a Hospice bed in Houston. Just hours before, I got to see him. I held his hand and told him how much I love him. I said I was taking good care of his beloved wife of 44 years, my mother, Marion.
Although his eyes were closed, and I wasn't sure he knew I was there, he apparently was waiting on my last visit to let go, a Hospice nurse told me. There were no telltale signs that the end was near. His vitals were good one minute, and the next minute he was gone.
In one of those things that makes you realize there is a Higher Power, the electricity at my parents house went off at exactly 9:15 p.m. and came on again 6 minutes later, according to my mom, who got the call about dad's death at 9:30 p.m.
Due to the threat of an ice storm, services are pending with the Veterans Funeral Home in Houston.
He was a great, colorful man, the kind they just don't make anymore, the very definition of the Greatest Generation. Born Dec. 27, 1919, in Sweden, he came to the United States in 1925 and grew up on Long Island, New York, where his dad built many houses. He got a mechanical engineering degree from Lafayette College, flew B-29s during World War II, fell in love with Texas and then moved here after the war. He was part of numerous industrial projects in Southeat Texas and beyond. He married my mother in June 1962. They never moved from the Houston home they moved into on their wedding night. He leaves behind his wife, Marion, three children, me, Kristen and Caren, and six grandchildren.
Despite being a full-blooded Swede, he was more Texan than anyone I've ever known.
He was my father. He was my dad. He was my friend.
I will miss him dearly.
But I also feel so blessed to have had him in my life as long as I did. He dodged myriad medical bullets over the years, including bladder cancer, prostrate cancer, heart surgery, left carotid artery surgery in 1995 and three hip surgeries.
The odds were against him just before Thanksgiving as he had surgery to remove plaque from his right carotid artery. Typically, surgeons for carotid artery procedures deal with blockage between 80 percent and 90 percent, with the plaque typically 1 inch long. In my dad's case, he had 98 percent blockage, and the plaque was 4 inches long and ran into the brain, where surgeons could not go.
The surgeon thought he'd gotten it all, but apparently a small, raised-up piece - called a flap - snapped off up in his brain and remained stuck to the artery wall. Here, a clot formed, cutting off blood supply to the brain's right side. The only reason it didn't kill him immediately is because his body had already compensated somewhat for the 98 percent blockage by directing blood flow from the brain's left side to the right. However, it was clear that almost his entire left side was paralyzed, and he could not swallow, meaning the rest of his life would be spent using a feeding tube.
Due to a hematoma at the incision sight, it was necessary for a breathing tube to be inserted. Subsequently, a compromised brain in addition to a tube-related respiratory infection as well as infections throughout the body, partially caused by his immobility, caused his organs to just shut down.
The past month and a half has been hard on our family, because even up until the end, there was hope that this tough, brave man would somehow pull through, but when his kidneys started failing early last week, we knew we were going to lose him. During this time, fond memories of my father have been flooding my mind. I'm remembering little things that I haven't thought of in years.
Yesterday, I began scanning in almost nine decades worth of photos for a slide show at the funeral services, and I felt overwhelmed with my dad's life story, being witness to all the remarkable things that occurred during the 20th century and beyond. So many of you had a chance to meet him.
As his only son, I feel it is my duty to keep his memory alive, live up to his example and ensure that my two boys pass his story along to the next generation.