03.31.2003
8:50 a.m.
My grandpa
Warning: grab a tissue for this entry. You might need it.
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My cousin was released from the hospital yesterday. She was aiming for Saturday, but they were having a hard time keeping her pain down. She's now resting at our grandma's house, so she can be taken care of as only a grandma can.
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Today is the year anniversary of my favorite grandpa's death. This was the husband of the grandma that is taking care of my cousin, so maybe it will take her mind off of him and keep her from being too sad.
My grandpa died of a brain tumor (glioblastoma multi-forme Grade 4) at the age of 73 on March 31st, 2002 after fighting it for about 5 months. I found out that he was sick on November 18th (the day after my birthday), 2001. He knew that it was deadly and spreading and would kill him quickly whether he did anything extreme or not. Unfortunately, he let my grandma and a few others convince him to have surgery to remove it, followed by radiation.
The radiation sickness made him weak and miserable and he begged my grandma to let him stop going. I think she just wanted to do every possible thing available in order to prolong his life, without considering the quality of it. I don't think he would have lasted long regardless. He didn't like being sick. He had too much to do.
Growing up, he would take us out fishing after dinner and would pull us around the lake on the kneeboard behind their pontoon all damn day. He would come rescue us when we got stuck at one end of lake in the weeds in the paddle boat. He was a wonderful, loving, strong, robust man who eventually became a shell of himself before he finally passed away. I think that was the hardest part about him being sick: seeing him go from a large man to basically a skeleton.
I still remember that day perfectly. It was Easter. I went to eat at a restaurant in Battle Creek with my boyfriend's family. I drove separately, because I knew I'd be going up to see my grandpa as soon as we got done with the meal. It was a good thing I did, too. By the time I got there, his breathing was so labored that he sounded like a coffee percolator. His eyes were completely white from being closed for nearly two weeks straight. (He was in a coma for a little less than two weeks. He went that long without water. He was nothing if not strong and stubborn.)
My mom gave him the medicine to help him to breathe easier at about 5 PM. Around 5:15 PM, only my cousin, my sister and I were left in his room, and my cousin shut the door. I finally started telling him what I had been thinking for the past few months, but hadn't had the guts to say. Between sobs I said, "Grandpa, you've already proven that you're strong and stubborn. Why don't you just let go? We'll all be fine. We know you'll be watching over us. The only thing I ask is that you be at my wedding. That's all I want. You must be so tired. We'll all be okay if you just let go. Just let yourself go..."
About 10 minutes later my mom came in the room and said, "How long has he been breathing like that?" I hadn't even noticed that he had started struggling to breathe again, even after the medicine she had given him. We called everyone that was there into the room, and we all just waited. Tears were streaming down everyone's faces. We all knew the end was very near. Around 5:45 PM, he took his last breath, let it out, and was gone. It was almost palpable. You could just feel a difference of energy in the room.
That night, it was like a good old-fashioned wake. We cracked open bottles of wine, and everyone shared stories of their favorite memories of Grandpa. We laughed, we cried, we got drunk. We waited for the men from the crematorium to come. Everyone got a chance to be alone with him, to tell him anything they wanted to. I feel sorry for the people who are afraid of death, and think funerals are the only way to grieve. I wouldn't change anything about that night.
He was cremated, and he now rests in a beautiful jar on my grandma's mantle in the living room. Whenever I go over there, I put my hand on the jar, and say hello to him.
In St. Louis, I bought a Rememberance candle from an Illuminations store. I'm going to burn it tonight, and think about my grandpa, and what a wonderful man he was.
He will never be forgotten...*
*Thanks to my lovely sister for helping me correct some details.
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