I'm writing because it's the only way I know how to get through things, to think through things.
I'm not even crying. I'm glad it's over. My pap was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease about two years ago. He was one of the most fiercely independent men I've ever known. He was stubborn and proud, which my grandma usually blamed on his Polish and German blood. He's the kind of man that deserves to die in battle, in greatness, not because of some stupid disease. So that's how I'm going to remember him.
He was funny, politically incorrect and loved all Pittsburgh sports. Think Archie Bunker, but not as pissed all the time.
He was the only dominant male figure in my life that I could consistently count on. When my dad died, it was him and grandma that were able to keep my mother, brother and I afloat. My family's fallen on a lot of tough times, and it's always been my grandparents that help us out. My family owes everything to them. Without all of the hard labor my pap put in working in the steel mill, my family would still be living in the decaying neighborhood we moved from.
But I'm having a hard time crying. Not because I didn't love my grandpa, but because that wasn't him that died a couple minutes ago. That was just a shell. The pap that I knew has been gone for a while. At this point, he was barely opening his eyes or acknowledging that there was anyone in the room. I'm glad that he's not bedridden and in pain anymore. He would have never wanted this to be the last thing people see of him.
I'm more worried about my gram than anything else. They've been married for somewhere around 64 years. My gram's been taking care of people her whole life, from her diabetic father, to her sister, to her mother, to my pap's parents and cousin and sister. To neighbors and friends. There's never a shortage. It's what she does. She takes care of people until they die, and she never takes care of herself, and largely she won't let anyone take care of her.
She based her entire day around my pap. She's wake up early to clean and do laundry. She'd get his breakfast together while waiting for the nurse to get him out of bed. She's help the nurse do their job. She'd feed my pap, crush his pills, and give him pills. The rest of the day she's sit by his side and halfheartedly read the paper or watch TV. She always kept sports on because they were his favorite. A lot of days she'd bake because it was the only think she could do to take her mind off her situation. Then she'd make food and feed him. Then wait for the nurse to come help her put him to bed at night. Then she'd go to bed and do the same thing the next day. At 84 years old. Because she refused to put him in a nursing home.
I'm worried about her. I don't know what she's going to do without him. She barely left the house in the last few years, maybe only two or three times per month for appointments and going to the bank. The rest of her life has been my pap. And now he's gone.
I didn't go to their house during his final hours. My mom and Tony, aunts and Uncles, and two of my cousins went, but I didn't. My mom didn't really want me to. I don't want to remember him like that, because that wasn't him. He's been a living ghost for the last few months.
I'll miss you, ol' blue eyes.
Here's a picture of my gram and pap holding hands. Taken last year for my photojournalism project.
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