My paternal grandpa died late Thursday night. He was 91. The past 8 days have been a roller coaster. My grandma had gone into the hospital for a blood transfusion, and he’d gone with her because he was too frail to be left on his own. I’d gone to pick them up from the hospital and watch over them for a bit at their assisted living community. When I got to the hospital I noticed my grandpa sitting oddly in a chair and that he couldn’t talk or move. He’d had a massive stroke.
It was November. Buddy’s birthday was approaching. I was midway through my pregnancy with Sissy and the big gender reveal ultrasound was scheduled for the next day. I wasn’t feeling too good. In addition to being pregnant I had some sort of respiratory infection. And I got a call about my maternal grandmother. She wasn’t doing too well. She would need surgery and there was a good chance she wouldn’t survive.
It wasn’t a big shock. She’s in her 80s. She’s been on a downward spiral for a long time. Dementia, strokes, and now a fall that shocked her weakened body. Besides, I’d been lucky to get into my 30s with all four grandparents alive. I told myself this was bound to happen eventually.
I took a day off work and drove up to the hospital. When I walked in my grandma was vibrant. “I’m so sorry I’m not going to live to see Buddy’s birthday.” She said.