My grandfather
turned 95 today.
He has two kinds of cancer, needs two people to move him from room to room, and breathes with the constant aid of an oxygen tank. He's mentally present, but almost completely blind and deaf. "I'm alive," he wheezes after we sing him happy birthday, "but that's it."
My grandmother, a youthful and agile 86, is perpetually cheerful and takes a seat beside him. She kisses his cheek and snuggles into his arm.
"This is my guy," she declares, "forever and ever and ever."
She beams and it's all I can do to not burst into sobs at the dinner table.
He has two kinds of cancer, needs two people to move him from room to room, and breathes with the constant aid of an oxygen tank. He's mentally present, but almost completely blind and deaf. "I'm alive," he wheezes after we sing him happy birthday, "but that's it."
My grandmother, a youthful and agile 86, is perpetually cheerful and takes a seat beside him. She kisses his cheek and snuggles into his arm.
"This is my guy," she declares, "forever and ever and ever."
She beams and it's all I can do to not burst into sobs at the dinner table.