Passing

As far as I was concerned, he went quietly.

My mother called me a week ago last Saturday and said that my grandpa had had a stroke and a heart attack that day and that he really looked like he didn't have many days left. The doctor had given him anywhere from three days to six months. My grandpa. The tall, bulky, gruff man we traveled to Los Angeles every summer to visit. After all the false alarms during the last few years since my grandma died, it looked like this might actually be it.

I thought about when I should go up to Idaho to see him. Given his history, I was sure I'd have a lot of time to make that decision, but still, the way my mom and dad were describing him didn't sound good. Work was a problem. I had a full schedule, at least one of the projects a live broadcast that couldn't be rescheduled. I called my mom again and she told me he was asking about me, whether I'd come to see him before he went, and whether I'd sing at the funeral. This settled it for me. I'd take Friday off and go up that weekend. My Uncle, who lives in California, couldn't make it until then either.

We packed up and made the three-hour drive on Saturday, a week after I'd first learned of his condition. I expected to find a house full of guests at my mom's place and have to make other sleeping arrangements, but, luckily, we missed everyone.

I went in to talk to Grandpa. He was in the other master bedroom, the one vacated by my parents when I was a kid after they had built the "grand master bedroom" over the garage. The home-hospice provided by Medicare had put him in a hospital bed. He really was in bad shape. He seemed to have trouble breathing and was aided by an oxygen tank that sat in the living room connected by a long tube. I just stood there for awhile. He looked so out of it. When he spoke to my mom, the voice was faint and raspy, vulnerable. With effort, he turned his head to look at me and said, "How have you been, ____," calling me by brother's name. I figured that was a sign of him being incoherent until he added, "If that is _____. I can't see very well." Then I could tell that he was actually very alert and his mind was working well. I told him who I was. I didn't want to be in there. He and I never really saw eye to eye. I lived with him and my grandma for a summer in L.A. when I was a teenager and we had our struggles. I learned to love him and realize that he loved me but I never really overcame the wedge between us. But that began to change when he pulled me close, still surprisingly strong, and embraced me. We didn't exchange any words. The hug said everything.

Later the nurse came and began to do something in his room. She came out and asked my dad and I if we'd help her. She was trying to change his bedding. He seemed to be in a lot of pain every time she touched him. I helped to roll him over so we could get the soiled pads out from under him. He hadn't eaten for five days but he was still so heavy it was quite a struggle. I was bombarded with emotions as I helped. Here was this man, still so substantial, yet so helpless. I felt closer to him in that moment than I ever have. I felt like he needed me and I wanted to be there to do whatever I could.

The next day, my uncle and two of his kids arrived. The last time I saw them was when my grandmother died a few years ago. Before that I think it was about twenty years. When I learned they were there, I went into the room and saw my uncle, a stout, good-looking man, holding my grandpa's hand. I blundered into the room, sticking my hand out and saying "how've you been!" and not realizing that I was interrupting an intimate moment. He was gracious and we talked for a second and then he resumed his nearly one-sided conversation with his dad. Grandpa was obviously glad to see him there. A week before he had asked if he was coming to see him and my mom told him he was coming on Sunday. He didn't say another word about it, just hung on and waited patiently. After they talked for awhile, my mom gave Grandpa some pain medication which put him to sleep. We visited with my uncle and his family for a while and then they left. Grandpa lay there gasping for air, his mouth wide open, for a few hours. We hung around watching tv, the kids jumping on the trampoline outside. Then my mom asked me to go to my brother's house to see his new apartment. When we got there, he was waiting for us outside. I rolled the window down and he said that my sister had just called. "Grandpa's dead." I heard a sharp intake of breath from my mother which startled me. She'd been so strong through all of this, so ready for him to go and be done with his pain and his loneliness for his wife, that is shocked me to see her react this way. She instantly gave the pickup gas and made a sharp U-turn and we were on our way back. "I knew I shouldn't have left," she kept saying. "Something kept telling me that he was going but I still left. I wanted to be there when he died."

We got back in less than five minutes. He was so changed. His face was completely flushed. He still had his mouth opened as if struggling for air, but there was no movement. Nothing can prepare you for that moment when you realize someone is gone. We'd all been expecting it. It was inevitable. But it hadn't been fact yet. Now he was truly gone. No more Grandpa. No more disagreements. No more looking into his eyes and seeing the love.

The hospice nurse was called and she drove over and confirmed the obvious. Then, half an hour later, my cousin and her mortician-husband came over. Another cousin I haven't seen for ages. I really enjoyed talking to her. I found myself wishing that it didn't take a death to get our family together. My dad and I helped get Grandpa on the gurney. The move was awkward and he was heavy. It wasn't very smooth, as my cousin put it, but he'd seen worse. That's the first time I've ever done that.

So he's gone. We're back in Utah but we're going to turn around and go back on Wednesday for the funeral. It's the end of an era. It's hard to believe.