Grandpa2

good-byes. Even now the words I spoke elude me; maybe the passion of my feelings got the better of me. I do know I hugged him and felt his rasping breath against my face.

It was Christmas Eve when I last saw him.

The few days after passed glumly. By now, my life was drastically different than what it was when grandpa's diagnosis first came in. I was no longer a fifth grader concerned with acne and boys. I was in my final steps of university, pursuing a degree in journalism. I was in a fledgling relationship that has since blossomed into the greatest blessing of my life.

The phone rang very early one morning, disrupting the oasis my home had been turned into. I approached the phone with an abiding sense of fear, longing to see some other, disconnected name on the phone. Anything but the nursing home’s name etched so coldly in that stoic font, uncaring of the news’ delivery.

But the news had to come some way, and that was the way it chose, at quarter after one in the morning. I dressed and headed to Grandma’s apartment to deliver the news in person an hour later.

She knew as soon as she answered the door.

The few days of funeral activities afterward were a blur. I woke up in numbness, pulling the day's dress clothes on before I went out. Losing Grandpa the first time was hard enough, when he was first diagnosed with Alzheimer's. And when he fell into a vegetative state, I lost him. When he died, I lost him again – but there was almost a painful sense of relief in that he wouldn't writhe and scream on that bed anymore.

His viewing lasted for two days as a lifetime's worth of friends and acquaintances poured in. Some were from the steel mill he retired from more than 20 years earlier.