(no subject)
My grandpa died. He was 96 and very sick, so in some ways, it's probably the right thing. He had a long, interesting life. He had four children, nine grandchildren, and three great grandchildren. He did lots of travelling and he had love in his life. He was extremely intelligent, well-educated, well-read, a lover of music. But at the end, he was in pain and suffering. In all likelihood, it was simply his time.
I feel sad, of course, but I also feel guilty - when I left the south east, I didn't call him, I didn't go down and see him, I didn't get to know him better when I had the chance. Even when I was in the south east, I don't think I saw him as much as I could or should have, and now he'll never know Gracie either. The last time I saw him was last summer, when I was massively pregnant and very irritable. It was hardly the kind of loving, pleasant visit I wish it had been.
It's a weird thing. I keep thinking, could I have done more? Should I have? If so, what? We were never that close, but should I have made more effort to change that? And might he have lived if he'd spent longer in hospital after he was sick most recently? If he'd had more or better help at home? Would that have been better? I just don't know.
I loved him. I did. He was a good man and I have fond memories of spending time with him as a kid. He could be funny and fun and weird and generous and kind - a lot like my dad (his son) in many ways. He wanted the best for all of us and was always doing his best to help us improve our minds. But he could be mean too - he was never very nice to my mum, and sometimes I felt like he looked down on her. I also think he did things just to needle her. Once, for example, when I was about 15, we were all on holiday in Ireland, my brother and I went with him and my dad to a folk music session and my mum made us promise not to be too late. But he insisted on staying well past midnight, knowing my mum would be upset and worried (this was before universal mobile phone usage), and I remember I was falling asleep before we left. He was also closed off - I'm sure he loved us but he didn't volunteer much and he wasn't very affectionate or demonstrative.
He was also extraordinarily resilient - he bounced back so many times, it was almost superhuman. I thought this time would be no different. I thought there'd be another chance to see him, to speak to him. It was his mind that kept him going as long as he did, I think. For all his health was failing, he was still more or less as sharp as he ever was right until the end. But his eyesight went and I think that was the beginning of the end. It meant he couldn't read anymore and it made him depressed.
I'm trying now to be grateful for what we did have, for the life he had. I'm also thinking of my dad, his brothers and his sister. They all loved him and I know he loved and was proud of them, as they've all accomplished so much. I hope he's at rest now at least. I hope he's at peace.
I feel sad, of course, but I also feel guilty - when I left the south east, I didn't call him, I didn't go down and see him, I didn't get to know him better when I had the chance. Even when I was in the south east, I don't think I saw him as much as I could or should have, and now he'll never know Gracie either. The last time I saw him was last summer, when I was massively pregnant and very irritable. It was hardly the kind of loving, pleasant visit I wish it had been.
It's a weird thing. I keep thinking, could I have done more? Should I have? If so, what? We were never that close, but should I have made more effort to change that? And might he have lived if he'd spent longer in hospital after he was sick most recently? If he'd had more or better help at home? Would that have been better? I just don't know.
I loved him. I did. He was a good man and I have fond memories of spending time with him as a kid. He could be funny and fun and weird and generous and kind - a lot like my dad (his son) in many ways. He wanted the best for all of us and was always doing his best to help us improve our minds. But he could be mean too - he was never very nice to my mum, and sometimes I felt like he looked down on her. I also think he did things just to needle her. Once, for example, when I was about 15, we were all on holiday in Ireland, my brother and I went with him and my dad to a folk music session and my mum made us promise not to be too late. But he insisted on staying well past midnight, knowing my mum would be upset and worried (this was before universal mobile phone usage), and I remember I was falling asleep before we left. He was also closed off - I'm sure he loved us but he didn't volunteer much and he wasn't very affectionate or demonstrative.
He was also extraordinarily resilient - he bounced back so many times, it was almost superhuman. I thought this time would be no different. I thought there'd be another chance to see him, to speak to him. It was his mind that kept him going as long as he did, I think. For all his health was failing, he was still more or less as sharp as he ever was right until the end. But his eyesight went and I think that was the beginning of the end. It meant he couldn't read anymore and it made him depressed.
I'm trying now to be grateful for what we did have, for the life he had. I'm also thinking of my dad, his brothers and his sister. They all loved him and I know he loved and was proud of them, as they've all accomplished so much. I hope he's at rest now at least. I hope he's at peace.