Who Is Going To Tell All The Stories Now?

Grandpa was diagnosed with lung cancer on Election Day. At age 87 he decided not to fight it. Any treatment would have gutted him and not provided much relief. My Grandpa was the Great Storyteller. He grew up in the Great Depression, meet my Grandma at age 8, only finished the 3rd Grade, married my Grandma 66 years ago before being shipped to England for World War 2, turned wrenches on trucks and Jeeps over there, came back home, raised 5 kids, drove tanker trucks full of gasoline until the early 1980s, retired, drove an RV all over this country, had a retirement trailer in Naples, Florida for years until he hit age 80. With all that history Grandpa had no choice but to be the Great Storyteller! He would chat your ear off if you gave him the chance. No one was ever a stranger to him.

I was with Grandpa quite a bit growing up. My grandparents' house was only 2 doors down. Many a summer afternoon was spent mowing their yard and swimming in their pool. Grandpa was good at watching out for me and the dog. The dog escaped our yard one time due to some idiot meter reader leaving the gate open, and Grandpa saw him on the street and told him to go back home. The dog looked up and quickly pranced back to our home, knowing he broke the rules.

Grandpa loved to have fun during his retirement. He would park the RV on the banks of a river to watch the boat races and barges. He knew where all the good fishing holes were. If some home project needed to be done, he figured out how to do it. No picture frame was ever crooked or cabinet unmounted with Grandpa around.

Grandpa was full of life and always a presence in the room. He might have been sitting down in a comfy chair during the holiday parties, but he knew how to work a room. His voice could be heard from the living room describing how the German pilot tried to surrender to him, how the co-worker's truck slid back down the snowy hill, how to kill snakes with a burning stick, double dating in the Depression, what radio was like back in the day, and all the cars he got to drive.

Yet those days were going to end soon. I enjoyed Thanksgiving and Christmas with him, though it was obvious he was tired and not as talkative. For the past few months I would try to swing by the house my grandparents were renting from Dad Hart every few weeks to check up on them. Every visit there was something new to notice, the oxygen hose, a nebulizer, a walker with wheels on it, a new bandage, a half eaten sandwich for dinner. The decline was slow, but obvious. Two Fridays ago I stopped by for about 30 minutes. We watched the news and Grandpa noted how "all the damned politicians are ruining everything." It was a normal visit. We discussed the idea of a ride along. If we could get a warm Spring day to occur on a day he felt decent he wanted to see the new downtown of Big City. So much had changed in the past decade or so and Grandpa wanted to see it first hand with a nice drive. I wanted to be his tour guide. What a great honor that would be. I wanted to show him all the obvious new treasures and hidden gems of this Big City I love so much.

The thing about terminal diseases is the long decline is slow, but a point is reached when the free fall occurs. I guess this occurred last Thursday. Two days earlier the hospice nurse had a hospital bed delivered into their family room. That Thursday he barely woke up and wasn't lucid for more than a few minutes. I dropped by Friday night after work and the morphine was letting him rest peacefully. Who was this man I wondered? This wasn't my Grandpa. The man was quiet and so frail. My various aunts and uncles and my mother had been there for who knows how many days doing shifts with him and my grandmother. My mom had a few days to be used to this sight. I was sucker punched and in shock.

Today, Sunday, I knew I should get over to my parents' home. The feeling in my gut rang loudly. Mom Hart was with Grandpa and Dad Hart suggested I go over there to pick her up. Dinner would be ready by the time I got back with Mom Hart. Grandpa's condition hadn't changed. His breathe was shallow in the raised hospital bed. I hugged him and patted his hair. I told him about my miserable afternoon trying to fix a leaky faucet. I'm sure Grandpa would have known exactly how to fix my faucet and might have had a proper tool in the garage. An uncle and aunt were with my grandparents and I'm sure my mom would be back later.

The call came right at 7:45 p.m. just after dinner. The Great Storyteller quietly passed into the next chapter. There would be no one last ride. Over the weekend all 5 children, all 6 grandchildren including me, and even the 4 great-grandchildren manged to come over at least once to say good bye. Except for the great-grandchildren and 2 of my cousins all of us were back in the small ranch style house by a quarter to nine. The hospice nurse came and started going over various things. I believe someone from the mortuary would arrive later tonight to pick up Grandpa, and the hospice company would swing by tomorrow afternoon to pick up all the equipment. I say I have a crappy job, but a revelation hit me that this sweet nurse had an even crappier job. I don't know what well this nurse draws from, but she handled our grief and questions well. Sadly Grandpa was the third patient to pass for her this week.

This weekend I was very sad and angry. Since the end finally arrived I'm merely sad. Grandpa had one helluva life! He was loved and respected and the people he loved most were with him at the end. We have so many good memories of him, like the best characters always do. I'm not a religious person, but I have this image of Grandpa meeting Saint Peter and starting with some stories. Nobody is getting through those Gates anytime soon because my Grandpa will be spinning yarns and tall-tales for a long time.