I can't remember much about my grandfather on my mom's side. I remember he ate a lot of oranges, and I remember that he'd always sit on the floor with me and draw pictures. I remember he had an orange hunting hat, and he liked Neil Diamond. And that's all I can tell you about him.
But last night, I cried for him. Next week marks thirteen years since he died, but I'd never really known about how he died. I was eight at the time, so I guess I never really thought about it. Last night, driving home from gramma's house, mom told me about it.
It was a stormy winter night, the night before it started. Mom's lifelong best friend was headed home from work, but the roads were dangerous, and she decided to stay the night at my grandparents house. The storm got worse and worse, but they spent a cozy night indoors, drinking tea and telling stories and looking at old photo albums.
Sometime during the night, my pop had a brain aneurism. An ambulance rushed to get he and my grandma to the hospital, where they did everything they could to save him. Something went wrong though, and the drugs put him into a coma. In order to keep him alive, my grandfather was hooked up to tubes and needles and monitors. My mom rushed to the hospital as soon as she found out, and her siblings flew home from across Canada to be with their family.
Ten days passed, and no change. Mom, Grandma, and the brother and sisters stayed at his bedside around the clock. Everyone was exhausted, mentally and physically. At this point, the doctors told them what they already had guessed. Pop wasn't going to get better, and if he did, he wouldn't be the man they knew; he'd essentially be a vegetable.
During his life, my grandfather had let everyone know that he'd never want to be kept alive artificially; it wouldn't be a true life, and he wouldn't want it. The family all agreed with his decision, and as heartbreaking as it was, they chose to pull the plug.
When the time came, the room was deadly silent. Everyone held their breath, wondering when the many monitors would announce the end. They didn't though, not that night or all through the next day. The next night, after the most stressful, anxious 24 hours of her life, my mom was still in the hospital room, with her youngest sister and their aunt.
Mom and her aunt stood by the window, looking up at the sky. One star shone bright, and they both found themselves making a wish. The same wish, both just wishing for this nightmare to be over.
A few minutes later, he died.
I never knew how my grandfather died. I never knew what a long, agonizing time it was. I never knew my mom was in the room with him when he died.
I think that's what pushed my sadness over the edge. Being there, watching a parent die, is the worst thing I can possibly imagine. It made me realize, my parents aren't immortal. Someday, hopefully years and years away, when even I am terribly old, my parents will die.
I don't know what I'll do; I can't picture my life without them. But it's inevitable, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it.
The only thing you can do, is cherish the time you do have with them. It makes me glad that my grandfather spent the last conscious night of his life how he did, with people he cared about, reminiscing on happy times.
I know sometimes I'll still be awful to them, but I want to spend more time like that with my parents. They're amazing people, and I just realized I won't have them forever. Better appreciate them as much as I can while I can.
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