Luke Russert Reveals 'Horrific' Moment He Learned of His Dad Tim Russert's Sudden Death

In his new memoir, Look For Me There: Grieving My Father, Finding Myself, Luke Russert chronicles his life as the son of famed newsman Tim Russert, who died suddenly in 2008. After working at his dad's beloved NBC News for the next eight years, Luke decided to leave behind the life of a D.C. journalist and become a world traveler, visiting more than 60 countries — a journey he describes in the book. In this excerpt, exclusive to PEOPLE, Luke writes about the days following his father's death, from the "horrific" moment he and his mother heard the news to his decision to write and deliver his father's eulogy.

While on a family trip to Italy following Luke's graduation from Boston College, Tim Russert flew home to Washington early so he could prepare to host Meet the Press, a position he had held for more than 16 years. Luke and his mother, Maureen Orth, were in Florence preparing for dinner when a phone call came that Tim had collapsed in his NBC office. A frantic series of calls followed, and before long they learned it was what they had feared. Tim Russert had died at just 58.

Somebody at the hospital confirms the news. A fatal heart attack, a type known as "the widow maker." Mom sinks back into her chair. She has been perked up at the desk, pen in hand, taking notes about the details. She is a celebrated journalist in her own right, a special correspondent at Vanity Fair, and till that moment she remarkably remains in reporter mode. But when the confirmation comes, the terrible truth sinks in. Tears stream down her face. She puts the phone down and motions for me to come over. We hug. She doesn't say a word. Mom does not wail. Not once. My throat chokes up, but I have to say it; I need to face this horrific reality, this new normal.

"He's gone."

Mom nods her head. I don't feel pain. Just shock. It's the beginning of somehow trying to accept that our world has forever changed.

Afterward, mother and son try to process the news.

By the grace of God, my mother and I cannot see the report in real-time. NBC News doesn't reach Florence, Italy, and social media apps are not yet as ubiquitous and invasive as they will be in the years ahead. This turns out to be an enormous blessing. In the hours after Dad's death, our news updates are the phone calls of friends and not an endless stream of politicians and fellow journalists offering up remembrances on Twitter or the national airwaves. Instead, we find ourselves, mother and son, walking the streets of the beautiful Renaissance-era city on a perfect summer night — phones off, only each other to lean on as we peer down at the Arno River and try to catch our breath.

We duck into a lobby bar of some nearby hotel. The crush of death is still raw, but not quite all-consuming. At that table we pledge our loyalty, affirm our love, and make a pact of strength and togetherness as a family. Our grieving will be dignified. Our attention will go toward honoring Dad's legacy and picking up the spirits of those as sad as us. Mom mentions we are blessed. Now is the time to rely on our Catholic faith. We hold hands and say a Hail Mary.

Later that night, Luke faces the reality of his loss.

I'll never speak to Dad again. He is gone.

I burst into tears, clutch the pillow, and scream into the night. Jeanie holds me and reminds me to breathe in between my hysterical wheezing. I cry about losing my best friend. I cry for the grandchildren he'll never meet. I cry for all the lessons ahead that I know I needed to learn but will not receive from his calm and trusting voice. I cry knowing the fabric of my being is forever torn.

I cry because he never got to see the Bills win a Super Bowl.

Back in D.C., Luke offers to deliver his father's eulogy, a daunting task for any son. But he finds inspiration from the man he is mourning.

Where can I turn for help in writing the most important words of my life? It dawns on me. Why not the man himself? I remember he had written about loss. I rush out to grab a copy of Big Russ and Me, my dad's memoir. In it, he talks about death through the prism of faith:

'The importance of faith, and of accepting and even celebrating death, was something I continue to believe as a Catholic and a Christian. To accept faith, we have to resign ourselves as mortals to the fact that we are a small part of a grand design.'

Dad does not leave me alone in the apartment. I feel he is showing himself. Almost immediately, I internalize his spirit. Perhaps he is writing through me, or there is a more divine connection. The words flow out. I write at a level of focus I've never reached before. The writing is continuous. When done, I give it a look over. I don't know where it came from, but there it is. I crack two beers. I toast the man and thank him.

At the wake, Luke realizes that the vast crowds honoring his father include the U.S. President.

The line must be a mile long. My eyes start to well up as I look at the people through the tinted glass. All ages, genders, races, and creeds. It's the American quilt.

We have heard that somebody from the White House was going to pay their respects, but we did not know that it was going to be the president. The sirens from the motorcade are within earshot. The president and Mrs. Bush walk in, escorted by one of my old teachers. President Bush, famous for giving nicknames, has one for me. "Big Luke! Come here, brother." He brings me in for a bear hug. "So sorry, your dad was a good man."

"Thank you, sir."

Mom and I pray with them. She holds their hands. They then follow us to the school library to meet the rest of our family. President Bush stays for an hour and greets every single Orth and Russert.

"Thank you for the time, sir," I say.

"My honor," says President Bush.

The son of a garbage man, getting a US president to his wake? I can hear Dad mouthing, "What a country."

Later, he must rise to the pulpit to eulogize his father.

I walk down the aisle of Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Washington, D.C., step behind Dad's casket. My focus is on Mom and nobody else. So long as she stays strong, I know I'll be fine. The priests have the rest under control.

That is the beauty of the Catholic faith. If nothing else, we know how to do death, following the thousands-year-old script.

At the appropriate time, the priest summonses me to the pulpit for the eulogy. I stare out into a sea of friends, family, and official Washington. In the pews, I see Barack Obama, John McCain, Nancy Pelosi. Joe Biden's face looks especially pained; he is a man all too familiar with grief. The same can be said of Ethel Kennedy, whom I lock eyes with for a brief moment.

And one more event, the public memorial service at the Kennedy Center, where Luke reflects on the world his father has left.

I follow remembrances from Dad's friend Maria Shriver and old boss Mario Cuomo. I see James Carville and Mary Matalin in tears, leading the audience in applause, and then a bear hug comes from Dad's friend Mike Barnicle. My uncle Tony Scozzaro, a gifted guitarist from Buffalo, plays Springsteen's "Born to Run" as a closing tribute. Then, unexpectedly, Bruce Springsteen himself is piped in via satellite and performs "ThunderRoad," Dad's favorite song. That makes me shed my only public tear.

I take a moment backstage to think. Tim Russert died at the height of his career. He died as the nominees for the 2008 presidential election were being settled on after a historic primary season. He died as television media reached its pinnacle, in the last hours before a new digital world. He died just after his son graduated from a Jesuit college. He died days after praying in the Vatican. He died in his favorite season: summer. He died on the Friday before his favorite holiday: Father's Day. The man who wrote books about fatherhood, which caused so many people to reconnect with their dads, actually died on Father's Day weekend.

A fitting ending.

Look For Me There: Grieving My Father, Finding Myself, will be published May 2 by Harper Horizon.