I'm Glad I'm Here
I've never watched someone I love waste away before. This is, by far, one of the most heartbreaking things I've ever borne witness to. My grandfather is wasting away: He's lost so much weight, all of his hair...his feet are so swollen that he can hardly walk and needs help in the shower. This is a man who used to be so happy just having a peaceful, simple life, where he'd spend hours in the garden or fixing up something in the garage-he bought an army jeep from the Korean War a few years ago and restored it (he was a mechanic in his time and enjoyed taking apart and reconstructing old cars); he had everyone who rode in it with him wear an army hat, and he'd blow the horn and wave as they passed people at 25 miles an hour. After just a couple months of having chemotherapy, he can't even walk without trouble, let alone drive a jeep. His visits outside are to the doctor, who is apparently mistreating him, but whom he's afraid of. He can't make food for himself anymore, so family and loved ones have prepared meals and put them in the fridge for him to heat up.
He's so depressed. I've just been rambling on and on in conversation, trying to entertain him-make him laugh, or at least smile. To no avail. He's exhausted and trying not to give up. He's in a lot of pain, this man, who used to help everyone else and hold everyone else's hand.
First the Cancer stole his beloved wife from him. The beautiful, Marilyn Monroe-esque woman who decorated his house and made him feel so unconditionally loved and walked him from the couch to the bed when she would find him asleep in the living room. He'd found a way to simplify his life further when she died, but now the Cancer has come for him. And he struggles to tell himself that he'll recover as he stares at the many, many orange prescription bottles with their clinical, childproof caps, and studies the desk calendar to see which pills he's supposed to take that day.
There are notes written for him, telling him that he will get better and pleading with him to not give up hope. I took a picture of one that read, "Ron, you will get well and have your life BACK." I don't know why I took a picture. I guess I just didn't know what to do with it. It broke my heart to see all those notes taped to everything, and I thought it encouraging of whoever wrote them, though very tragic and painful that he needed them that much (of course he does). I asked my father about them last night, and he said Grandpa wrote them himself.
I used to sit on my grandfather's lap and go swimming with him. He used to carry me out of restaurants and swing me around in the air. He'd stop by our Ft. Lauderdale house "when he was in the neighborhood" (he was never "in the neighborhood," but just wanted to hug us) and pick both Josh and I up and stay for a few minutes just to hug us. He used to be a very strong man, very handsome, very sure of himself. Now I'm afraid to give him a hug. I think he's just as afraid. He's so fragile now, within such a short time.
My poor grandfather. I'm glad I'm here, but it's the scariest realization to think it may be the last time I see him. I feel like I've just fallen from a great height and had the wind knocked out of myself.
He's so depressed. I've just been rambling on and on in conversation, trying to entertain him-make him laugh, or at least smile. To no avail. He's exhausted and trying not to give up. He's in a lot of pain, this man, who used to help everyone else and hold everyone else's hand.
First the Cancer stole his beloved wife from him. The beautiful, Marilyn Monroe-esque woman who decorated his house and made him feel so unconditionally loved and walked him from the couch to the bed when she would find him asleep in the living room. He'd found a way to simplify his life further when she died, but now the Cancer has come for him. And he struggles to tell himself that he'll recover as he stares at the many, many orange prescription bottles with their clinical, childproof caps, and studies the desk calendar to see which pills he's supposed to take that day.
There are notes written for him, telling him that he will get better and pleading with him to not give up hope. I took a picture of one that read, "Ron, you will get well and have your life BACK." I don't know why I took a picture. I guess I just didn't know what to do with it. It broke my heart to see all those notes taped to everything, and I thought it encouraging of whoever wrote them, though very tragic and painful that he needed them that much (of course he does). I asked my father about them last night, and he said Grandpa wrote them himself.
I used to sit on my grandfather's lap and go swimming with him. He used to carry me out of restaurants and swing me around in the air. He'd stop by our Ft. Lauderdale house "when he was in the neighborhood" (he was never "in the neighborhood," but just wanted to hug us) and pick both Josh and I up and stay for a few minutes just to hug us. He used to be a very strong man, very handsome, very sure of himself. Now I'm afraid to give him a hug. I think he's just as afraid. He's so fragile now, within such a short time.
My poor grandfather. I'm glad I'm here, but it's the scariest realization to think it may be the last time I see him. I feel like I've just fallen from a great height and had the wind knocked out of myself.