One more time
Spending time with Potato’s family tonight has made me realize exactly how much I miss my Grandpa. He died almost six years ago from complications of pneumonia and a broken neck. Even though he was old (90) that was in no way a contributing factor. This man was a longtime cowboy, a manly man. You couldn’t imagine anyone more genuinely masculine than him. Growing up, I was scared of him. I was scared of this 5’5″ man who spoke loudly, drank two or more gin martinis a day, and woke up every morning at 4:30am to go chop wood, hunt for that’s night dinner and whatever else he did. He was kind of a grumpy ol’ man but was always pleasant enough to me – except for when he tried to play with me but it was in a way that I didn’t understand at the time. All he would do is try to take away my blanket while smiling and I thought he was the most evil person on the face of the Earth. Unfortunately I did not realize exactly how close we were until he ended up in the emergency room with a broken neck.
How he broke his neck is both somewhat amusing and very upsetting. It treads that fine line of being funny because a 90 year old should not be carrying a 50lb bag of dog food up steps made of rocks but that’s the kind of man he was. Extremely capable and always willing to get the job done. I can’t find it very humorous for long because basically, that is what killed my grandfather. The only grandfather I ever knew, the only one who ever knew that I existed.
He was in the hospital for about a week as they tried to stabilize his neck. Pneumonia quickly set in. Between the pain medications, stress, and his Alzheimer’s flaring up, he began to become extremely confused and would go days without talking. I was his only grandchild that was at his side for hours every single day. I held his hand, I talked to him even if he didn’t respond. While he slept, I would do my homework next to him just in case he woke up so he wouldn’t be alone and scared. On the days he wouldn’t talk to respond to anyone, as soon as I walked in the room he would always ask me how the horses were. As soon as this started occurring I started realizing how much he and I had in common. Our biggest common factor was always horses and anything horse related.
After the week in the hospital, it became clear that he would not be recovering so we made the decision to move him into hospice care. Everyday I was still at his bedside, doing homework, reading magazines (to myself while he was sleeping and outloud if he was lucid enough to understand). After a few days it came to the point where he didn’t know who I was anymore. From what I’ve been told from various family members, I was the second to last person he forgot (the last being my grandma). It was an extreme blow to go from being the only person he would talk to or acknowledge to being asked “Who are you? Are you a new nurse?” I tried to explain to him who I was but it was too late. I was forgotten.
It took a lot of effort to hold back my tears, kiss him goodnight for what would be the last time, and walk to my car before falling apart. On my way home, the song I listened to was “Bitmap” by Sinch. It was not intentional but after a few weeks, I figured out that it is the most fitting song for that evening and the following time afterwards.
About an hour or so after I got home, I received a call from my mom (who was taking the watch after mine) who said that he had passed on. As soon as I puked, I rushed back to his bedside.
For the next few months, I felt like I was being watched. It was not creepy, it was comforting and reassuring and I never felt lonely. I would find myself having discussions with someone who was not physically with me. Questions would pop into my head that I would be answering – things I already knew the answers to. To this day, you can not convince me that that was not my grandpa. There is nothing you could say that would make be believe anything less than my grandpa was hanging around to make sure I was okay.
Even to this day, occasionally I will feel him around. I love it. It is the closest thing I can get to having him come back to life.
Coming up from Santa Barbara in September, we stopped at the cemetery where his ashes were buried. I spent a good ten minutes hugging his headstone, crying uncontrollably. That is what I would be doing now if he wasn’t three or four hours away. You don’t understand what I would give in order to see him one more time. To hug him one more time. To tell him I love him one more time. I’m not sure that will ever go away.