gramps: a small tribute

My grandfather has always been a constant in my life. Probably one I took for granted most of my life. Birthday dinners, Gramps was there. Sunday dinners, Gramps was there. Sporting events, Christmas, random weeknights, anytime mom made pot roast, Gramps was there. Now he's not, and never will be again. And so as I struggle to explain the process of dying to my two young children, and struggle to grasp it myself, I'm feeling grateful for the time we had, while desperately clinging to the last moments we have left.

My grandpa has always kind of been more like a second father then a grandfather. I've gotten lectures, scolded, probably yelled at a few times, then apologized to, and always hugged and reassured of his love for me.
He taught me how to drive, change a flat, form my own opinions, and take responsibility for my decisions.

This past year, helping to take care of my grandfather since he's gotten sick has been the greatest joy for me. We have talked politics, reminisced, laughed, and eaten a lot of Subway.  I've had the privilege of watching him form a strong bond with my children, one he clearly treasures, and I'm sure my girls will treasure for the rest of their lives.

When my grandpa made the decision a few weeks ago to end his life sustaining treatments, it was hard to swallow. I'd leave his hospital room in tears. But he really did his best to reassure me. I will hold on tightly to the things he said to me. During one of his firmly lucid moments, he took Kevin and my hands, grasped them firmly, and said,
"I'm going to be watching out for our girls, don't you worry."

Holy tears, batman.

He has repeatedly thanked me for everything I've done for him. And I have repeatedly assured him how very welcome he is, and how he has done more for me then I could have ever done for him. He has thanked me for "giving him his girls". (also, tear jerker. Thanks for that, Gramps.) He has said a deliberate goodbye every time he is able. I have sat and held his hand, and he has smiled and stroked mine.

The other day as I sat with him I recounted one of my favorite memories (or at least one I won't ever forget): Not long after I got my permit he was supposed to take me to Hershey Park. Much to MY surprise he told me I would be driving myself to Hershey Park. I had never driven on the highway, or ever gone near 55 miles per hour, but my arguing did no good, I was in the driver's seat. I'm pretty sure I didn't even go near 55 the entire time we were on the highway, and, as these were the days before GPS, I had to follow the SIGNS to figure out how to get there. Somewhere along 743 I pulled over (I may or may not have been crying) onto a gravel shoulder. There was some pleading, and some "get back on the road", I'm sure you can guess from whom each of those things came. Eventually I made it to our destination, still alive, and probably a better driver for it. It's a memory Gramps and I have talked and laughed about many times. Especially because I ended up getting married right across the street from that gravel patch where I pulled off the road. As I repeated the story to him a few days ago as he lay in his bed at Hospice, he closed his eyes and chuckled. And we made another memory that I will hold on to forever