One Last Visit

I lost my granddaddy last year. I say “lost” but not really. I know where he is. Despite all the rocky times his life encountered, he finally ended on the upside.

He disappointed me a lot when I was younger, saying he’d come visit. And then never show or even call. I used to get so excited to see him. He always loved my little sister best, but it didn’t bother me. I was happy just to see him. And see what he’d leave behind on that visit (I guess that’s where I get it). But then it just kept happening and I just got older. Old enough to remember that perhaps this time would be like all the rest and he’d be a no show. I was too young to understand the grips of alcohol, to realize that addiction makes you do things you don’t want to do…and keeps you from doing the things you love.

He came to live with us when I was in middle school. He had cancer. Being a typical adolescent, I wasn’t overly concerned with the cancer diagnosis, as I’m sure my mother must have been. I realize that I didn’t make it particularly easy on anyone during that time, being as preoccupied with myself as I tended to be. Looking back, there were so many things I could have done, could have said. It didn’t change much as I got older, either. He continued to make poor choices and I just began to ignore him except on those occasions that I was reminded he still existed – to take him food or this or that from Mom. I made the visits quick and left as soon as I could. Snobby, I suppose. Didn’t like where he lived or how it smelled or the neighborhood.

Then he had heart problems. He had to have surgery. Very sick. Something wonderful happened because of that heart problem. He became eligible for financial assistance. He was able to move to an apartment. This apartment had rules – he had to keep it clean and no bad influences. He’d been on and off the wagon so many times, I thought for sure this would be in passing as well. But not this time. This time, he kept his promise. He stayed in that apartment, and kept it clean – just in case we came to visit. And visit we did – most Christmases. But not every. Sometimes once or twice at other times of the year. Very shameful, I know. I was caught up in being busy, in rearing children. It was their naptime, they were hungry, what if we broke something? What if we stayed too late and missed xyz? We could only stay a few minutes, so we didn’t bother going at all. And now we’ll never have another chance. For four or five years, I had the opportunity to mend the fences and build a relationship between my children and the granddaddy I always knew he could be…but now that opportunity is gone. When I think of him, I always see his smile first – that big grin, happy to see me. He always smiled at the children, happy to see them crawling around. I remember the time Nate was 1 ½ years old and we stopped over for Christmas – Granddaddy had cashews. And Nate liked them! Because of those cashews, Granddaddy finally got to hold Nate without him squirming to get off his lap.

He got sick again when I had Ella. I couldn’t go see him then due to him having a staph infection and me with a newborn. He left the hospital the same day I took Ella in for a bilirubin check – my children were able to see him, but not me. I never got to let him meet his latest grandbaby. He “temporarily” moved to a nursing home for therapy to swallow and left in an ambulance. The next time I saw my granddaddy was when all the nurses and doctors and EMTs were standing over him, trying to revive his heart. Just like on the TV – but this time it was real and it was with the granddaddy I never got to say “I’m sorry” to. I always thought there would be another day, another tomorrow. He lived through so many things – he was tough. But not this time. This time he held on for four more days, but never woke up. I stood beside him, looking at his socked feet, grateful that he was wearing socks so that he wouldn’t be cold. Took his watch so it wouldn’t be stolen – and then was sorry because I’m always so lost without my watch. I talked to him, told him I loved him. Kissed his head like Mom asked me to. He never woke up. Missed my baby, someone to hold, so badly I couldn’t stand it. I’ve never been in that situation before. Never been placed in the “family room” with a counselor. Never had doctors ask about living wills…it was all a miserable first. And I didn’t enjoy it. But I am grateful that I had those moments with him. Even if I was too late, I was still there so he didn’t have to be alone.

Later, family came and sat with him and I went back to tending to my children. But my mind was on him. Of days and times and moments that were lost that would have been so easy to share with him. But I didn’t. I could have called more. Written more. Visited more. And no matter what others say, I know that I didn’t do all that I could. I could have done much, much, more to let him know that he was loved. But I also know that he loved me – and he didn’t hold it against me. Even though he could have, he didn’t spend his time moaning about his family who never visited. I was there as he took his last breath on this Earth. And realized that my Granddaddy was gone. And this time I knew that he really wasn’t going to come back.

So for now, I’ll just remember his big smile and button-down shirts and look forward to getting in more visits in Heaven – where there will be no tears and no regrets. We’ll get that good, long visit in eventually and boy, won’t that be a visit to remember?!