My grandfather had a stroke last Friday. And when a 102-year-old man has a stroke, you start making funeral plans.
When Mom told me the news, it somehow didn’t seem urgent. He may be winding down, I thought. But surely, surely he won’t die for a few more months yet. I always kinda thought he’d live to see 103, the same age his mother was when she died. Or perhaps he’d hold out for 104, just to beat her record.
But Aunt Rebecca said he’s not eating, and can only drink a little water from a sponge. His kidneys will shut down before long.
Mom and I made the decision to go to Minnesota, to see him at least one last time, and to help with comfort care. So that’s where I am, today. Sitting in the Kansas City airport, waiting for my connecting flight to Minnesota.
Aunt Rebecca said that when Grandpa heard we were coming, he said “Ich bin froh us see komma,” which means “I am glad they are coming.” It was his first clear sentence since his stroke.
It’s hard to process my feelings right now. At 102, no one can deny that it’s probably about his time. Still, maybe he’ll hang on, yet? It feels too early to grieve.
This is a strange, fragmented blog post. I’m sorry. But I feel a little strange, and fragmented.