I wrote this section before getting a call from my Dad that my grandfather had an estimated 24-48 hours to live. I guess I was just in a depressed mood yesterday morning.
Death scares me. In my mind, it is an unrecoverable loss. I'll never get to see those people again for the rest of my life. It's been 20 years since my grandmother died, and I still keenly feel the loss. I have many good times to remember her by, but it's not the same. I'd rather have her here with me, able to spend time with her as an adult, learn from her some skills I wish I'd been old enough to learn 20 years ago. I have a lot of regrets about not learning all that I could while I still could. I should have put more effort into knitting, should have paid more attention when she was cooking, should have should have should have. This was 20 years ago, and yet I can’t even type this without crying.
My grandfather is not well. He’s the last grandparent I have, and I know what’s coming. He will die, and I will have no grandparents left. His house will be sold, and that last connection to childhood places will be gone. I’m scared to visit him in the hospital, but I know that I have to. I don’t know how to deal with the deterioration, the frail body, the less intelligible speaking.
John may live a shorter life than me. After he’s gone, I’ll be alone. My parents will likely be gone, my brothers probably living away. John and I have no plans for children, but even if we had them, they likely wouldn’t want to be burdened with their lonely mother as they’d have their own lives to lead. He’s the one person who is there 24/7 listening intently to what I have to say, and I’m scared there won’t be anyone who cares that much if he’s not here.
I know I bore some people with my issues, I can see their eyes glaze over, their attention turns to something else, or they just start talking over me. It happens frequently, at least that is my perception. That’s one of the main reasons for this blog, so I can speak uninterrupted and for as long as I need.
Dad called yesterday around 10:30am with the news. I went to the hospital at lunch and last evening. It's hard to see Gug like that, with his teeth out, mouth hanging open while he slept. He was never a large man, but not being able to eat the last few months means that he's basically wasted away. He doesn't look like himself. I need to push past this and go visit anyway, so he knows I'm there.
I'm tired of losing people. I haven't really lost that many people, to be honest, but I'm tired of it nonetheless. I know there are more losses to come in life, and it's going to happen to people even more close to me. My faith does help me believe that the people who have passed are in a better place, but I'm selfish and want them still here with me.
Gug never wanted to be immobile, bedridden, etc. He had surgery on his eyes for cataracts and cornea transplants, something which encouraged me to become an organ donor candidate. He also had veins stripped and replaced in his legs to help circulation. These things helped to keep him going, living with his dog in his house, mostly independent. He loves to read, golf, and bowl, but wasn't able to do much of that recently.
What I dread the most is the aftermath. I dread funeral parlour and funeral. Having to go to the church and the gravesite is going to rehash a lot of memories from my grandmother's funeral 20 years ago. I feel like I'm going to endure a double loss. Thankfully I have John to support me.
God, when you decide it's time, please take care of him.