November Third

                My grandmother’s house never changes. Always filled with people and food and laughter. The front door always squeaks, the light switch to the basement always clicks, and there are always photos overlapping photos overlapping photos.

                This didn’t even change when my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. The house still remained crowded, the door squeaked open with each arrival or departure of a cousin or grandchild, and my grandmother never stopped cooking too much food for anyone who stopped by.

                When my grandfather got weaker, hospice installed a special bed in the living room for him, where he was hooked up with oxygen and could lay by the window with his dog. That dog’s favorite place was on his lap or on a pillow next to him. She sat with him like his guardian, a constant reminder that he was loved.

                He was never alone. My grandmother took up the habit of sleeping on the couch near him so she could be sure to attend to his every need when the hospice nurses or other family members couldn’t be there.  My grandmother has always cared for everyone in her family in every way that she could, and never with a single complaint. My grandfather’s illness was no exception. Her life became harder, but you’d never know it with the way she smiled when you arrived in the house and immediately asked a million questions about YOUR life and how YOU were doing.

                For three months, my grandfather suffered. Eventually, he wasn’t recognizable as our Grampie anymore.  His face was thin, his shoulders bony, his eyes always closed. He spent most of his time sleeping on his bed, with the dog right by his side. The family would gather in the living room, take turns asking if he was okay in between sharing bottles of wine and remaining as positive as a family can be under the given circumstances.

                November 3^rd came both suddenly and after what seemed like a lifetime of watching a man we admired and loved waste away.       When I arrived, my mother stood in the driveway and warned me “Just so you know, grampie is still in there, okay?” I hugged her and pushed open the door which squeaked in the way it always has and dropped my bag and shoes on the porch.

                My grandmother wasn’t crying. Someone told me the night before she had climbed into the bed with my grandfather and slept next to him. It was as if that gave him enough peace to let go and pass on. I hugged my grandmother, noting how much shorter than me she seemed, and proceeded into the living room, where everyone was gathered.

                Over the next half hour, the entire family packed into the house, the door squeaking every few minutes as more people arrived until the living room was packed full around my grandfather, who was no longer with us.  Knowing how much he’d suffered, we all felt relief behind our sadness. We all hugged each other and passed around boxes of tissues, silent in the room except for sniffling and muffled “I love you”s to those around us.

                When the funeral home came to take him away, we all said our final goodbyes. A kiss on the forehead, a touch on the hand or shoulder. His skin was cool against my palm and it was in the moment that I touched his forehead that it actually hit me.  He was gone. I reached for the person closest to me, my sister, and we cried together. The rest of the day was spent hugging and sharing memories. Our Grampie may be gone, but we each carry a piece of him with us in one way or another. We carry him in the closeness of our family and in the ability we had to smile at the end of that day. We carry him in the stories we tell and in the zest we have for getting everything we can out of life.

We carry him, most prominently, in our hearts.