“I’M PROUD OF YOU.”
(Photo by Aunt Sarah, if I recall)
My grandfather had a heart attack today. I only know a few details from what my mother texted me. Not much. I know that he’s currently in Sacramento at Mercy Hospital, probably transferred up from Grass Valley once they had stabilized him. I know that the surgeons wanted to give him a “procedure”, but decided against it on account of his poor kidneys. I can comfortably say that this was in no way the result of a life lived irresponsibly — Grandpa is a straight arrow if there ever was one — but from the harsh reality of aging. I wish I knew his exact age… I should know his exact age… but he’s been pushing 90 for what seems like twenty years, and now the entropy of living has finally caught up with him.
Mom said she had gone down to Grass Valley to be with Grandma who was not doing well herself. The trauma of the situation was, of course, a factor. But last week, their entire assisted living community was snowed in, and they had gone without power or heat for three full days. Mandi, my wife, had shown me a picture of Grandpa laid out in his chair, bundled up in a thick fleece jacket, snow gloves, and a beanie with a heavy blanket and his Terrier, Scotty, splayed across his lap.
In no way should the elderly be exposed to such harsh conditions for one day, let alone several. Still, when I looked at the picture initially, all I could think of was Aw, isn’t that too bad. I wasn’t as angry as I should have been. I know that that wouldn’t have solved anything, but the sentiment should have been there nonetheless. I suppose I was too focused on my situation, having had three terrible nights of sleep in a row and fast approaching the end of a week-long holiday vacation to be thrown back into a lion’s den of impossible deadlines and a manager that hated my guts. I’m sure Grandpa would have been more than happy to switch with places with my soft ass. This whole work/respect struggle I have with my boss is all cupcake bullshit anyhow. The man will never accept me no matter how hard I work, and yet I’ve been fretting returning to the fray, certain he’ll find another opportunity to bore into me… the fucker. What I should’ve done was taken a closer look at that photo, taken a closer look at Grandpa - a man I had always loved and respected - and realized how unfair and cruel life often is even for straight arrows. I am not a straight arrow. That’s not Grandpa's fault though. His love and support have kept me from the brink many times when I thought I had pissed off the last lingering person and was finally exiled from the human race to wrestle my demons alone.
The last time I saw him… and I hate using the word “last” at this moment… was two months ago for an early Thanksgiving. After the meal, when we were saying our goodbyes, he squeezed my shoulder, looked deep into my eyes, into the depths of my frayed soul, and said something I hadn’t heard in a long time: “I’m proud of you.” I cried on the car ride home. Here was someone who loved me unconditionally when all but a few had given up entirely. It was the greatest gift I can remember receiving, and of course it came from Grandpa…
My thoughts are with him tonight… May God treat him with the same care and compassion he has shown me. He deserves nothing less.
Note: I had finished this journal entry around 8:30pm Sunday night, 1/2/2022. Three hours later, Mandi and I were awakened by Alex crying in his crib. As Mandi sought to him, I received a text. It was from my mother. “Grandpa died at 11:22pm.” she wrote. I didn’t sleep after that.
