Around six months ago, my grandpa died. I never really talked about it because it hurt too bad. We weren’t close in the traditional sense, but he bought me Mac’n’cheese and payed for my first set of hearing aids. He also sent me a birthday card every year and it was one thing I could always be 100% sure of.
So when we found him it was the worst day of my life.
When we found my grandpa on the bathroom floor, we panicked. He was still alive and conscious so we called 911 and stayed with him.
Because I am first aid certified I looked after him and made him talk to me until first responders arrived.
His body was swollen and you could tell he had been there for a while.
However, he let me hold his hand and he told me how he had been robbed and beaten. This did not happen though, his mind was slipping due to lack of oxygen and he had begun accepting a fantasy.
When EMS finally arrived and put him on the stretcher, I didn’t recognize him. He was weak, swollen and had sores on his face from laying still too long.
He made it to the hospital and was in ICU for a little over a week. I don’t think he ever fully regained his memory, but he knew who his family was and he told me he loved me.
When my grandpa died I was at work.
I met my family at the hospital where we stood in a room with his body. I cried, a lot. I said goodbye. I left.
Death comes at its own pace and its own time. My grandpa lived a week longer than he should of. We were given a chance to say goodbye and I am so thankful for that.
There are still some nights though, like tonight, that I’m haunted by the image of him on the floor and in the gurney and it’s hard.
But then I remember the fact that I was able to spend every Sunday with him and he lived a long life.
My grandpa and I were not close in the traditional sense, but he was still a big piece of my world.