(no subject)
I got a phone call from my step mom Thursday night, letting me know my grandpa had been admitted into the hospital a few days prior because he'd been in such pain on Monday he couldn't get out of bed or really move. At first, the doctor's thought it was a muscle herniating on his side. As it turned out, it was the cancer we all thought was in permanent remission making it's return. My step mom told me they were considering starting radiation treatment on Monday, and it might be a good idea if I went up to see him before that began; and, also, it couldn't hurt to give my grandma a little extra support. I spoke with Michael, tied up some loose ends on campus, and we left for Redding the following day.
The doctor's ran more tests, more MRI's, Saturday morning. As it actually turned out, the cancer was not only back, but it was making it's grand finally - his cancer had progressed to a stage 4. It was in his bones, it was spreading to other organs; it was, in fact, so widespread that the oncologist told me that if there was such a thing as a stage 5, my grandpa would be in it. Radiation was no longer an option as it was too far progressed; he was too old, anyway. Both were euphemisms for 'he was too far gone.' He didn't have much time left, the doctor said it could be a day or two or a week or two but that either way it wouldn't be long. Early Sunday morning he was moved into a private room in the cancer care center, to die. They reassured us he'd go with dignity and would be treated with care to ensure he was comfortable until the final time came when death came knocking, but neither sentiment was particularly reassuring. Neither sentiment told me I'd get my grandpa back. Neither sentiment said I'd get to have the only father I knew growing up, the man who raised me despite the circumstances, at my graduation or at my wedding or at the birth of my first child.
This is how I came to find myself saying goodbye to my grandpa early Sunday afternoon.
I spent Saturday with him, in his room. My grandma and Michael were there, and so was Jordan. I gently mashed and moistened his food, sharing for a few brief hours my grandma's hope that providing him with food might further provide him with life, that somehow that old Hyatt stubbornness would kick in and, with a little sustenance, he'd refuse to go. But his hands were shaking so bad he couldn't grab hold of a milk carton, and his skin looked like plastic around his elbows. He mumbled small, almost soundless responses. But he managed to smile up at me as I was adjusting his pillows before we left and then grasped my hand tight; and neither of us let go for several minutes, and that was one of our true last moments together.
The kicker came when we were leaving for the night: my grandma called his name and blew him kisses, and he managed to blow her one back. I had to duck my head into Michael's shoulder to stop from bawling as we walked to the car.
The next morning Michael and I were to head back to Berkeley, but not before stopping back by the hospital. I went in while he parked the car and found my grandpa asleep, his head bent uncomfortably forward and to his left. I struggled to prop his head up, to give him support. Michael came in to find me sobbing uncontrollably in a chair next to my grandpa's bed. It was hard. Even though not even a day had passed, he looked so much more weak. I tried to feed him lunch, but he couldn't even manage to take a sip of juice from the straw. Even that was too much for him. I tried speaking to him, talking to him, holding his hand, and got very little in response: a small hand squeeze and a head movement in my direction with some noise, more sounds than words, but nothing more. The nurses told me he'd pulled his iv out the night before and had tried to get out of bed, but that since then he hadn't really seemed aware of anyone or his surroundings. I started to panic that the end was near, and Michael held me close as I fought tears.
When it was time to leave, I kissed him on the forehead and told him I loved him while I held his hand, and hoped that he could hear me. It was all I could do.
I am prepared to handle most of what life throws at me, but watching my grandpa slowly fade in a hospital room I know he'd rather not be in is not something I was equipped for.
I used to think that I'd want to know before someone I loved passed so I could spend my last moments with them and say my goodbye; I thought about this a lot after my mom passed, how much I wished I could tell her one more time that I loved her despite everything. But I didn't consider how difficult it would be to see them, and how hard it actually is to let go.
And worst of all is that now all that's left is to wait.
The doctor's ran more tests, more MRI's, Saturday morning. As it actually turned out, the cancer was not only back, but it was making it's grand finally - his cancer had progressed to a stage 4. It was in his bones, it was spreading to other organs; it was, in fact, so widespread that the oncologist told me that if there was such a thing as a stage 5, my grandpa would be in it. Radiation was no longer an option as it was too far progressed; he was too old, anyway. Both were euphemisms for 'he was too far gone.' He didn't have much time left, the doctor said it could be a day or two or a week or two but that either way it wouldn't be long. Early Sunday morning he was moved into a private room in the cancer care center, to die. They reassured us he'd go with dignity and would be treated with care to ensure he was comfortable until the final time came when death came knocking, but neither sentiment was particularly reassuring. Neither sentiment told me I'd get my grandpa back. Neither sentiment said I'd get to have the only father I knew growing up, the man who raised me despite the circumstances, at my graduation or at my wedding or at the birth of my first child.
This is how I came to find myself saying goodbye to my grandpa early Sunday afternoon.
I spent Saturday with him, in his room. My grandma and Michael were there, and so was Jordan. I gently mashed and moistened his food, sharing for a few brief hours my grandma's hope that providing him with food might further provide him with life, that somehow that old Hyatt stubbornness would kick in and, with a little sustenance, he'd refuse to go. But his hands were shaking so bad he couldn't grab hold of a milk carton, and his skin looked like plastic around his elbows. He mumbled small, almost soundless responses. But he managed to smile up at me as I was adjusting his pillows before we left and then grasped my hand tight; and neither of us let go for several minutes, and that was one of our true last moments together.
The kicker came when we were leaving for the night: my grandma called his name and blew him kisses, and he managed to blow her one back. I had to duck my head into Michael's shoulder to stop from bawling as we walked to the car.
The next morning Michael and I were to head back to Berkeley, but not before stopping back by the hospital. I went in while he parked the car and found my grandpa asleep, his head bent uncomfortably forward and to his left. I struggled to prop his head up, to give him support. Michael came in to find me sobbing uncontrollably in a chair next to my grandpa's bed. It was hard. Even though not even a day had passed, he looked so much more weak. I tried to feed him lunch, but he couldn't even manage to take a sip of juice from the straw. Even that was too much for him. I tried speaking to him, talking to him, holding his hand, and got very little in response: a small hand squeeze and a head movement in my direction with some noise, more sounds than words, but nothing more. The nurses told me he'd pulled his iv out the night before and had tried to get out of bed, but that since then he hadn't really seemed aware of anyone or his surroundings. I started to panic that the end was near, and Michael held me close as I fought tears.
When it was time to leave, I kissed him on the forehead and told him I loved him while I held his hand, and hoped that he could hear me. It was all I could do.
I am prepared to handle most of what life throws at me, but watching my grandpa slowly fade in a hospital room I know he'd rather not be in is not something I was equipped for.
I used to think that I'd want to know before someone I loved passed so I could spend my last moments with them and say my goodbye; I thought about this a lot after my mom passed, how much I wished I could tell her one more time that I loved her despite everything. But I didn't consider how difficult it would be to see them, and how hard it actually is to let go.
And worst of all is that now all that's left is to wait.