Four Feet More

This morning, a week after being put into hospice care, my grandfather passed away. He had been on a steady decline over the last 2 years, but since the death of his brother last month, he seemed to have given up and his health has dropped sharply as a result. I can’t say that I blame him, really. The idea of living in a nursing home, watching others around you become increasingly feeble and die cannot be a pleasant existence. So, while I kind of feel relieved for him, that he doesn’t have to live that way anymore, I am very sad for the loss of the Gramps I loved so well.

Gramps has always been crotchety. In an endearing way, of course, but crotchety nonetheless. I used to refer to him affectionately as “Grumps.” The way he viewed the world reminded me very much of a male version of Maxine from the Hallmark Card collection. While others may not have seen the humor, I found his perspective very amusing. Frequently he’d mumble some comment under his breath to me, in his cantankerous way, and when I began to laugh, I’d see him crack a small smile. Even though he was a grouch, I knew he meant no harm, and I think he appreciated that.

In recent months, I haven’t spoken with Gramps much. He had phone issues in his room at the nursing home, and when I was able to get through to him, he always sounded tired and a bit winded. Gramps began smoking when he was 9 years old, and for the last couple of years, he’s been on oxygen to assist his ravaged lungs. Seeing and hearing him like that has been very difficult for me. Selfishly, I have avoided calling him because I don’t want my memories to be clouded with images of him being so weak and forgetful. Maybe I’ll regret that later, but for now, I’m glad that I don’t have any unwanted mental images popping into my head when I think of Gramps.

Instead, I see him seriously riding around my mom’s backyard on the little tricycle, trying to make the kids laugh. Or I hear him mutter “God damn it” after we’ve all settled down comfortably in one room, only to be asked to move to another. I see him leaning back, with a martini in hand and a blissful smile on his face as we sit in a jazz bar at the top of the John Hancock building in Chicago. I also remember him telling me about the times he went to the doctor’s office after injuring his shoulder. He had to go there for regular check-ups, and he felt it was his duty to hug all the cute nurses in greeting. However, with his shoulder injury, he could only raise his arm so high, which meant that his hand was right on a level with their butts. When I exclaimed in horror, “Gramps! You’re copping a feel on your nurses!,” he smiled impishly and responded, “Yes, I am!” Dirty old man. :)

Below is my favorite image of Gramps because it perfectly captures the playful side of his nature I knew and loved so well. It is a photo of him with my best friend Mel, dancing at my wedding to Beck’s “Where It’s At.” When the song came on, it was jazzy enough to get him out there on the dance floor, doing all these funky Brat Pack moves with a woman almost 1/3 his age. God, I love him.



In recent weeks, Gramps has changed drastically. He became unresponsive and bedridden, with a body that pained him constantly. Last week, during both my Uncle and Great Aunt’s visits, he seemed a bit more alert than usual. When they said their goodbyes, telling him they would come see him this weekend, he responded, “No, I don’t think I’ll be here.” After he was asked where he was going to be, he said, “I’m going home.”

Bye Gramps. I hope you made it home safely. I’m going to miss you.