Sad days

A year of difficulties for Grandpa took a turn for the worse and he died last week, peacefully in his sleep in front of the ocean at his house in Kona. The night before he died, he was tossing and turning, rife with uncomfortableness. He was almost unable to speak at that point, Grandma was nearly sick with worry and sadness, and no one wanted to leave his bedside because we kept trying to prop up pillows or help him move around or something! I sat next to Grandpa and held his soft hand. I squeezed three times: "I love you." Grandpa paused a second and then I felt four squeezes back: "I love you more." Grandpa's oft-repeated response whenever a grandkid told him we loved him. He pulled his hand away soon after and resumed his spasmodic sleeplessness before his body eased into the liquid morphine-induced oblivion that we would provide for him via under-the-tongue, later. I'd already called his hospice nurse twice that night; she had recommended that we administer the soporific papaverine tucked away in the downstairs bathroom cabinet. 1/4 drop'll do ya.

We all gave our kisses and hugs to Grandpa and finally, since he was at last sleeping, and peacefully at that, we went to bed and worried that we might never see him again. The last few days were bad for Grandpa, today especially so; he had only gotten up from bed to go to the bathroom a few times and to sit in his special chair to watch the waves in the morning. He hadn't even drank his daily glass of red wine at sunset. It was a particularly bad day for Big Al, and we all knew time was running out, and fast. He'd told my cousin Jesse earlier that evening that he was "fading out." And indeed he was.

The next morning at about 5 in the morning, my Auntie came into our room and told Peter and I that Grandpa died this morning. I sat up, threw on yesterday's clothes and ran to the other house, where Grandpa was lying on his bed, a slight smile on his face, and more peaceful than he had in days. I kept expecting him to jump up, dance around on the bed a bit and shout, "Just kidding!" Of course that never happened, but I could keep hoping. The hospice nurse came, pronounced Grandpa dead at 5:43 a.m., gave us all big hugs, and gingerly asked us when we wanted the mortuary to come and take Grandpa off to the cremation chambers. Grandma wailed, "his beautiful body; they can't take it away." More crying, more crying, and more crying.

We toasted to Grandpa with our life-sized Bloody Mary's and talked about our sweet and gentle Grandpa, father and husband. I tried to imagine what it would be like to lose my best friend, lover and lifeline of more than 65 years. Completely inconceivable. Completely.