When the Stars Fell

I feel it coming in my bones as the calendar turns toward August every year. The Perseid meteor shower, active from July 17 through August 23, is visible each year as our planet passes through dazzling trails of debris created by the comet Swift-Tuttle. When these icy “space rocks” enter the earth’s atmosphere, they burn up, creating bursts of light in the dark sky—a light show like no other.

But despite its beauty, the Perseid meteor shower is also an annual reminder of the worst week of my life. While astronomers and news anchors speak of the 50-75 stunning falling stars per hour streaking across the Southern sky, my mind drifts back to a different kind of falling—the collapse of our family.

It was August of 1992, and I had bought my parents discount plane tickets to visit my sister in St. Louis. I escorted them through the busy airport, but something felt off. My father, Herman F. Lanier, moved slower than usual.

Days later, when my parents returned from the trip, my father looked worse—bloated, uncomfortable, and with a grayishness to his complexion.

“We need to call the doctor this week,” Mom said. The appointment came quickly, and the doctor prescribed Lasix to flush excess fluid from his body. The drug worked dramatically—over twenty pounds melted away in the following week, but my father grew weak. Mom and I were both worried about him.

That same week, Gene and I drove to Atlanta for an Elton John concert. Returning to Warner Robins late that night, we zoomed south on I-75 under a sky that suddenly exploded with magical meteors, also known as shooting stars and falling stars. Gene steered the car while we both craned our necks skyward over the dash, watching streak after streak paint silver lines across the darkness.

The following day, I rushed over after work to check on my father and tell my parents about the meteor show. My father, who was naturally a quiet man, was quieter than usual during my visit. I could see that the swelling around his belly was gone, but he seemed frail, and I had never seen him frail before.

Mom took him back to the doctor a day or so later and voiced our concerns: “He’s so weak. I think he needs to go to the hospital.”

But the doctor reassured her. “He’ll be alright. Just help him get up and down and to and from the bathroom. He’ll slowly regain his strength.” Again, after work, Gene and I drove over to visit, taking a small dish of banana pudding for my father. Daddy was lying on the sofa, so, so weak, with my mother sitting at his feet. He barely touched the dessert. I kissed his cheek before we left, and something shook me as we walked out of the house. In retrospect, I think I may have had a premonition—a feeling that something horrible was about to happen.

He died a few hours later, on August 21, 1992. The coroner said that the cause of death was hypokalemia, or low potassium. The Lasix that flushed fluid from his body had also flushed out critical electrolytes, triggering a heart attack. Paramedics could not revive him that night. He was pronounced dead at the hospital.

Every summer since, as August approaches, I relive it all over again like a broken record. I drop them off at the airport. They return. They visit the doctor. The fluid comes off. Gene and I drive to a concert and witness a sky full of shooting stars on the way home. My father grows so weak he can’t sit up. We visit him. I kiss his cheek. He dies that night. We bury him in a flannel shirt and jeans.

I relive it over and over again, and I grieve over and over again.

This year, the Perseid peak will be diminished by a full moon, reducing the meteors’ visibility by 75%. continued from page

But for me, the brightness of the sky or the visibility of the meteors doesn’t matter. The Perseid meteor shower finds me whenever and however it appears, carrying the weight of that terrible week when the sky fell in silver streaks around me, and my father fell away from us forever.

Each and every year, mention of the Perseid connects me across decades to the moments on a dark interstate in 1992— my husband and I watching in wonder. Even today, I look upward and am blown away by the meteor shower’s magnificence. But I look up there for another reason, too. I look up there hoping that somewhere among those brilliant streaks of light, my father’s spirit is still falling gently through the darkness, falling all around me, reminding me that even in our deepest grief, beauty and love continue to illuminate the world.