My Grandpa

Written Feb. 6, 2008

September 11^th will forever be a vivid memory for me, as it will be for many Americans.  I remember the images, the shock and fear. I also recall the rallying, the heartfelt prayers that ascended from our lips, the dedication of the people to help the victims. It was a sorrowful day for our country, but what followed that month was a life-changing experience for me and my family.

Just a day or two after the initial attacks at the Pentagon and the Twin Towers, we received a phone call from California. My grandfather, who had recently become ill from the aftermath of a heart bypass surgery, was diagnosed with a rapidly spreading case of lymphoma. The doctors reported that he only had a few more months to live. Our relatives told us that he grew weaker by the day, his strength seeming to fade away. It was hard for me to grasp this image in my eleven-year-old mind. 

Grandpa had always been a strong, rough man. He was a hard worker and took advantage of no one. If he’d lived in the West during its early days, I could easily envision him a mountain man, blazing tough trails and crafting a homestead out of unruly terrain. When I heard he was dying, I went to my bedroom closet, enclosed myself in it, and did what I had been taught to do since birth. I prayed long and hard, which is ever so hard for an eleven-year-old to do. I pled with God to spare his life. After some time and some tears, I felt comforted, but also recognized that God’s will might not coincide with mine. I determined to accept His will, whatever it might be.

Already planning to take our annual visit to California, we were set to leave in two weeks. Our plans were quickly adjusted as we became aware of my grandpa‘s worsened condition. In the days that followed, the doctors discovered that the lymphoma was much more advanced than they thought. Instead of months, his life expectancy was shortened to a few weeks, and then to only a few days. 

Amidst the chaos that America was experiencing, we made ready for a quick flight out of Des Moines. The airports were like ghost towns with just a few brave souls, out making their own business top priority. Despite the fear that hung over us, we were among them. It must have been an interesting sight, a family taking a red-eye flight, consisting of a father and mother with five tiny tagalongs. All of us were carrying, pulling, yanking an assortment of baggage, thrown together with little notice. As the oldest, I was in charge of  helping keep track of the little ones, which, at that time, included all five of us. The youngest was only about a year old. I remember how frustrated Mom was when the security guards asked her to open her diaper bag and take every single content for inspection. We were grateful that they were taking such precautions, but it made the trip a little difficult for our crowd. 

When we got to my grandparents’ house, everyone rushed around, as if all earthly time were going to run out. I didn’t expect the sight that greeted us. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t to see my big, brawny grandfather laying in the living room, pale and breathing laboriously. I wanted him to greet me like he had before, with a crushing hug and kiss, sweeping me off my feet into his arms. He was barely coherent, drifting in and out of a weary sleep. My aunts, uncles and cousins came to help comfort each other and consult. There seemed to be so much going on, but nothing for a little girl to do except tend the little ones. I once tried to play the piano, with permission. However, I was gently told to stop, that it was bothering Grandpa. He kept mumbling things to someone, sometimes things that our ears could not make out. 

He got worse just in the few hours that we had been there. The entire family was called and beckoned around his bedside to say a formal goodbye. I will never forget the heart-wrenching scene, my grandmother sitting beside him, whispering how much she loved him and his labored reply, calling her name, “I love you.” He couldn’t say anything else. Someone asked me if I’d like to hold his hand. I was filled with a sudden fear that I could not understand, a fear of touching a dying person. This was my grandpa, whom I loved deeply. That love overcame my fear. I held that huge, worn hand and rubbed it gently with my little fingers for a long time. I whispered too, “I love you, Grandpa.” The whole family, myself included, was there for his last breath. He smiled. Someone from the other side welcomed him, and my heart, in this strange new dimension of time between life and death, was comforted that he was not alone. 

This experience taught me so much about the sanctity of life. I learned that death can be a precious moment for one who has worked diligently to uphold good values. When he left us, I knew that I would surely see him again and this peace comforted my aches. Sometimes when I’m drifting off to sleep, I still remember his love for me, embodied in the supply of butterscotch candies in his shirt pockets, the rides he took me on at Disneyland, the storytelling of his childhood on an Indian reservation in Idaho, the quieter moments when he’d hold me on his lap and listen to my chatter. Even with many grandchildren around, I knew that he loved me. I never felt I had to compete for his love. If I can touch a life as he touched mine, I will count my existence complete.