WAITED TOO LONG
The day my dad flew off to Montana, I thought he was just going to help my grandpa move from his apartment to the new nursing home. He would call us and talk about the family, the friends and how everyone was doing great. I would wonder what everyone was like as I hadn’t seen them for a while. I would especially wonder about my grandpa and think to myself, this summer, this summer. Everything seemed like it would be perfect soon. That was all about to change.
I hadn’t been to Montana for nearly five years. We used to go every summer, until all of my overnight summer camps would be right when we planned to go. So the rest of my family would end up going and seeing everyone, including my grandpa. I remained an obscurity to all of them, more so because they would almost always see my little sister Maddy. Even though we were family, we didn’t really know each other.
While I was a mystery to them, they (my family extended family and grandpa especially) were a mystery to me. I remember his eyes the best. One was a deep icy blue and sightless, glassy and glazed at the same time. The other eye was a cerulean blue, and looked as old and wise as a tree. I also remember his apartment that smelled like old sweaters and memories. He had an old recliner that was a faded pickle green, across from an old television screen always playing football with the occasional static reception. There was a rusty old playground outside the apartment, a slide, a groaning merry go round, rocking horses, and squeaking swings. Whenever we would visit, I would run outside and play for hours, and half the time I was by myself, too shy and awkward to go and talk to anyone. As a result I never got to know my grandpa. I always assumed that when I was a little older, things would be less awkward and then I could and would make a flawless effort to get to know him, and unfortunately I never got that chance.
In mid-January gramps had to have gallbladder surgery, this was a few months after he went to the nursing home. We were all as scared as cornered mice, confronted with a cat, wondering if he would make it or not. He made the choice to do the surgery hoping it would reduce some pain and help him feel more free and happy. My dad flew out to Butte to be with him during the surgery and the recovery. Luckily, he made it through the surgery ok and felt like a freshly lit fire, and better than he had in years, so he told my dad who told us. Everyone was ecstatic, and as my grandpa had had very little to eat leading up to the surgery he ate like a horse for the next couple of days after the surgery. Everyone was having a blast, relieving our tensions and releasing our anxiety. We were all sure he would be around for at least five more years. I had promised myself by that time that no matter what, I would go to Montana that summer to see everyone.
About a week after the surgery we got a call from dad. He told us that during the night gramps had aspirated (thrown up and then choked on his own vomit.) He had also failed to press the emergency help button that would call a nurse to help him. His nurse found him that morning and called my dad who rushed to the nursing home, and sped him along roads as icy as Antarctica to the hospital. His lungs were full of vomit, and he was immediately admitted to the ER. For the next few days, he was unconscious, his heart rate and breathing irregular and nobody knew what was going to happen. I asked my dad, to tell him to hang on that I had to see him. My dad never left his father’s hospital room. One night he woke up and talked a little, said things along the lines of goodbye. That he was ready, that his hourglass had been running out of sand for 87 or so years. The next morning he died, and I never got to see him.
That February, was the funeral, and my first time back to Montana in five years. It was hard seeing all of the “Jessica’s” and “look how big you’ve gotten” when I knew gramps was gone. He’s gone, those words never really sunk in until I went to Butte. The funeral was confusing, especially when I was trying to organize my emotions. All of my cousins sat on the first pew, on the left. All twenty of us, and we cried together and used Kleenexes to mop up our oceans. I always used to cry about everything. I would weep when other people were weeping or when I was hurt or anything insignificant, but at the funeral I couldn’t shed a tear unless I actually concentrated and tried to cry. I felt so guilty because I couldn’t show any sadness that he was gone. Maybe it was because I knew he loved my grandma Helen more than life itself and he had been missing her for thirteen years. He was ready to see her again, and to be free. I’ve never been religious but it’s like I knew he was watching us. In the middle of the service, someone’s cell phone chimed and I thought how rude! Later I found out it was my Aunt Jo’s phone. The call had been from my Grandpa’s phone that we all knew wouldn’t be ringing ever again. It was like he had been watching over us. Not using that grizzly bear voice or wheezing a cough, but smiling, like a boat returned to the sea.
By Granddaughter Jessica