Fly High

Why is it that even when someone is very old, ailing, and very obviously close to death, that their actual death comes as a surprise to those of us left behind? Is it also a surprise to the one who dies, I wonder.

My grandfather died tonight. Just a short time ago. I'm stunned despite the fact that the last time I saw him he looked very much like a corpse still breathing. He was in the hospital, quite drugged up to blur the pain of a broken hip, devoid of all color and his usual dishumor. So much like a dead man was he that Reilly Kate was scared to touch him or even sit near him.

But then, I started the kids to singing. Reilly Kate, Roman, and I. We sang and he sang with us. Row row row your boat, in rounds. Grandpa, who the kids called Papa, took the second round. And we all sang as I saw the life flicker boldly across his face. I cried then knowing it would be the last time we'd see him. He'll be cremated by sun up tomorrow and, according to his wishes, there will be no memorial service.

I'm not sure how the kids are going to take it. I know they'll miss him every time we go to Chuck E Cheese's. And every time we have a hot fudge sundae. In their pure, simple faith they'll find some comfort in the idea that he's with Jesus and their beloved GG who died two years ago. Things are so much more complicated when you get older and harder to find comfort.

He lived a good life, a long life. He was ready to go, my grandpa was. He'd done it. Seen it. Ate it. Danced it. Sang it. Razzed it. Felt it up. He was a card for sure and I can plainly tell you that the nurses who cared for him are breathing a sigh of relief now. No longer will a half dead patient try to french kiss them and then bellow at them for bringing him food he doesn't want to eat. Such was my grandpa.

Alas, though, time marched on and he was ready to check out. No longer even finding pleasure in the nurses.

Maybe death comes as a surprise to those of us still living because we never truly think the doors will close to those memories we hold dear. Because no matter how hard we try to keep memories alive, they get dusty and fuzzy and old. And the time that goes by between dustings gets a little longer, the memories get played back fewer and fewer times. And then those dearly held memories become rarely thought of memories.

I can hear him now, though, yelling at my grandma. "Mother! Water!" I'm sure she's just thrilled to back to his beck and call. Insert eye roll here. Hang tough, GG. It's only an eternity with the old buzzard!

In closing I'm going to put up a few recent pictures. Just a few memories to try to keep out and dusted.



Reilly Kate trying to negotiate with Papa for more Chuck E Cheese tokens while my father in law looks on.


Roman checking on Papa's ticker.


Irina and Papa meeting for the first time.

Love you Grandpa.