So my poor old grandfather died yesterday.
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| Meeting his tenth great grandchild. Note ghost of smile. |
He had been ready for a while to get on. He wasn't sick, exactly; this hurt, that ached, and then these past few months he wouldn't get out of bed. Or eat, really. He was done. My dad would visit him daily, try to cajole him into walking - lately he was fantastically unsuccessful in this project - and listen to his complaints. My dad has never been accused of having a marvelous bedside manner; but every. single. day. he would make this little sojourn. I can only hope even one of my offspring will put up with such crap - literal and figurative - as my Dad did with his father.
What I wish I understood - and maybe I understand better than I care to admit - is why Grandpa had given up. Yes, he had the wind knocked out of him six years ago when my grandmother died. But he had two devoted children, a caring community he lived in, and a warm, saintly friend - Angel Arlene - who visited him, listened to him, cosseted him, and brought warmth, hope and life into his dark corner. Grandpa, there is so much life, so much whackness, so many curious, wonderful things - if you are somewhat healthy - and he was - we think - then why not get out and gawk, at least?
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| Gratuitous shot of charming four month old who wouldn't sleep |
Oh darn you Grandpa. I hope you are happy now, fishing salmon, playing on your Voyager, in the Big Alaska in the Sky. Love, Jill
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