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I talked to my mother today. Grandfather is failing quickly; he hasn't eaten in three weeks, and the liver cancer has spread to his esophagus. The doctors offered to insert a stent into his esophagus to keep it open, but he declined. He simply wants to be done. If nothing changes, he has chosen to starve to death and will do so very soon. My mother doubts he will be in any shape to receive visitors.
She did, however, suggest that I write him a final letter, filled with my best and clearest memories of him. That way, he can read it(or have it read to him)without the pressure to perform. My grandfather has always been gruff when it comes to emotional displays and tends to downplay heartfelt sentiment with sarcasm and snide humor. Judging from his comment to my aunt during the ambulance ride to the hospital("Ha! I get the limousine treatment when the buzzards are circling.), this is unlikely to change, and even though I know that he means no ill will, and that it isn't All About Me as his life draws to a close, I don't think I'd bear his chiding with grace.
So, I'm going to write my letter over the weekend. I've already chosen the clearest and dearest memories, and maybe later, after I've shared them with him, I'll share them with you. And setting them down here will preserve them for me, too, so that when I'm mutton-headed and senile and nursing a tumor of my own, I can reread them and remember, not only him, but myself.
In the meantime, I'm going to pester Roomie for some hot tea and watch "Nashville Star". I might work on Et Tu X as well, but that might be beyond me tonight. We'll see.
She did, however, suggest that I write him a final letter, filled with my best and clearest memories of him. That way, he can read it(or have it read to him)without the pressure to perform. My grandfather has always been gruff when it comes to emotional displays and tends to downplay heartfelt sentiment with sarcasm and snide humor. Judging from his comment to my aunt during the ambulance ride to the hospital("Ha! I get the limousine treatment when the buzzards are circling.), this is unlikely to change, and even though I know that he means no ill will, and that it isn't All About Me as his life draws to a close, I don't think I'd bear his chiding with grace.
So, I'm going to write my letter over the weekend. I've already chosen the clearest and dearest memories, and maybe later, after I've shared them with him, I'll share them with you. And setting them down here will preserve them for me, too, so that when I'm mutton-headed and senile and nursing a tumor of my own, I can reread them and remember, not only him, but myself.
In the meantime, I'm going to pester Roomie for some hot tea and watch "Nashville Star". I might work on Et Tu X as well, but that might be beyond me tonight. We'll see.
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