A few weeks ago, my grandfather went into surgery and was diagnosed with stomach cancer. We knew his time was limited; we just didn't know how limited. He was rushed to the hospital on Thursday, January 27 and admitted to ICU. He'd stopped eating and drinking a few days prior, since everything made him ill. Friday morning, I called Jared and told him we had to go. I initially wanted to wait until after his appointment with the oncologist. I didn't see the point of all the 19 or so grandchildren sitting around my grandmother's little home. It seems that the sick get lots of visitors at first, then they taper off. I figured Jared and I could take the next round. Thankfully, God made it clear to me that it was time to visit. I'm so glad I listened!
When I arrived at the hospital on Saturday, I knew I wouldn't be leaving. Papaw was so thin and pale. He had the basic nose tubes (please forgive my horrific lack of medical knowledge) and was heavily medicated. His breathing was labored and he dozed frequently. But when he was awake, my grandfather still knew who I was and he was happy to see me. My mom was on her way and I called her approximately every five minutes, asking how much longer. We hadn't realized how sick my grandfather was and I just wanted my mom to get there!
After sitting with him all day, my youngest sister, Tabitha and I headed to Dad's for a little rest around 12:30 a.m. At 4:00, Mom called and said we should probably start making our way back. Thirty minutes later, Terry called and said to come now. Tabitha and I got ready in approximately 0.5 seconds and headed out. Those hours were such a gift and I will be eternally grateful for that time. Papaw looked even smaller and had the full face oxygen mask. I thought he was unconscious, but as I got closer saw he was trying to talk. My mom, uncle and I were gathered around him and could not understand what he was trying to say. I finally told him we needed him to say it out loud. He mustered all his strength and said, "I love all y'all". During his last hours, his only thoughts were of telling his family how much he loved us. Since he was coherent, I chatted about happy memories and got a couple of smiles out of him. They are forever burned into my memory.
Waiting for him to pass was strange. I hated that we were on a "death watch", but it was important for us to be there. He always feared dying alone. I always feared seeing someone die. Would I be strong enough to see him struggle for air? Would it be scary when we realized he'd taken his last breath? Would there be a spiritual change in the room? I've heard of people having moments of clarity just before passing, or commenting about seeing Jesus or Heaven. That wouldn't have scared me, but would still be a new experience. Ultimately, these were selfish concerns and it was more important to be there with him. Leaving, as it turned out, was never a question.
Being with him when he passed was the most awesome experience (emphasis on the awe; it certainly wasn't fun or enjoyable), probably second only to the birth of my daughter. Just before 12:00 central, as Tabby and I were inhaling our sandwiches, I looked up and noticed his breathing was very shallow. I got my sister's attention about the time Mom told us this was probably it. We were shaking and tearing up, but gathered around our grandfather. We held onto him, telling him how much we loved him, how special he was, that we would never forget him and thanking him for all the good memories. He took a few more breaths and then.....just stopped.
Of course we fell apart, prayed again, then collected ourselves. I had the most overwhelming feeling of peace and closure. He was gone and in a sense, we helped send him off. It made me wish I'd been there with my Grandmother Meadows. I still feel like I never got to tell her goodbye.
People tend to reflect differently when someone passes on, but I try to remain truthful. My grandfather was a flawed man (I know, who isn't?). He battled many demons, including alcoholism. I can honestly say that I never saw the "other side" of him. I am the oldest grandchild on that side of my family and can admit I was pretty spoiled. My grandfather adored me and I have several wonderful memories from very early childhood. They are kind of fuzzy, but I have them just the same. Then there are the kazillion stories I've been told throughout my life. I love them all. Papaw was always happy to see me and always had time to talk when I called. He was never short or harsh with me, and made a point to say how much he loved me and how proud he was of me.
For the visitation, we wanted to put out pictures. My grandfather was 68, so he grew up in the 50s and 60s and sported that lovely greaser look. I found a few pictures taken in the early 70s. I know the quality is horrible and plan to take them to a professional studio to see if they can be reprinted.
There was one of these with my mom and she does not look happy to have her picture taken. I figured she would kill me if I posted it.
This one just cracks me up. My uncle was always the hellion.
(My mom is the oldest, with the white headband.)
When he was diagnosed, my biggest concern was that Papaw wasn't saved. The thought of never seeing him again terrified me much more than losing him temporarily. On Saturday, January 29, Papaw finally prayed and said he wanted to know God before he died. I found out later that when he prayed this, Papaw hadn't realized he was probably in his last hours. He thought he had more time. His prayer wasn't one solely of desperation; he wanted to be saved.
You have such a gift for writing--- I was only 6 when my pawpaw died-- as hard as I imagine it was, how special to have the opportunity for a goodbye... You are in our prayers!
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