During the summer of 2012, I dealt with a long and exhausting period of time in July. It started off as a normal summer month. I was out with my friends every day and night; I didn’t have to worry about school, and I could sleep as much as I wanted. My life was full of happiness, laughter, and smiles as I enjoyed the blistering heat of the days and the cool of the nights. Everything seemed perfect until my grandpa, the greatest man I’ve ever known, was sent rushing to the hospital.

As I enter the doors of the Defiance Mercy Hospital, the sky had a dark, gloomy tint to it. Outside in the hallway talking amongst themselves, my whole family sat waiting. My dad asked, “Have they given us much information?” They let us go in with groups to talk to Grandpa. All the kids thought it was nothing serious because the last time he was in the hospital he was sent straight to Cleveland to a hospital where he had to get a new heart, and this time he started off at Mercy, a local hospital.

Seeing him brought relief to me, but little did I know it would be the last time I would ever hear him talk. I didn’t know it was the last time I would tell him I loved him and hear a response. I went into the room with my dad and step mom. My grandma, who was on the couch, said little to nothing as we took turns hugging and kissing my grandpa’s wrinkled forehead. He told us not to worry, and that everything was going to work its way out and that he loved us more than anything. After giving him a second hug, we took our leave after hugging Grandma.

That same night, the hospital called and told us that they had began the process of taking him to the Toledo hospital because he needed better care. I was at a babysitting job when I found out that they took him. The people I was babysitting for were the pastors of my church, and they went to the hospital with him. I sat on their couch in tears as I prayed that he made it. It wasn’t fair that I was stuck there while he was in the hospital with who knew how much time left. I remember feeling rage and sadness as I sat there waiting. Eventually, they came home and told me that he was in intensive care on a ventilator because he couldn’t breathe.

The very next day I left with my dad, mom and sisters to head to Toledo to go see him and my grandma. The rest of the family was planning on heading there too so that we could all be together. In ICU only so many people can go back, so we took turns. My grandma warned us that they had him strapped up to a bunch of machines She continued to tell us, “He’s unconscious and looks terrible.” The younger kids were not allowed to go back because they didn’t want that sight of him in their heads.

The last room down the right hallway held my dear grandfather. I remember it so clearly that I could almost cry thinking about walking down that dark cold hallway. Machines beeped while the nurses and doctors exchanged words in whisper. As I reached his room, I stopped at the door in shock to what I saw. Hot tears streamed down my face as I chocked down a scream. ‘Why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn’t this be someone else’s grandpa?’ Those thoughts flew through my head as I approached his bed. They said that he could hear us, though he couldn’t make any form of reply. I held his large hand gently as I whispered in his ear: “I love you so much, Grandpa. I don’t want you to leave us.”

After I was back in the waiting area, the rest of my family had arrived and held me close. It was hard not to cry, especially after seeing my nine-year-old, sweet and innocent cousin who still didn’t fully understand that our grandpa was basically on his deathbed.
After a couple days, the doctors thought that he took a step forward, that he had a sign of actually getting better. I think we celebrated too soon. We all had hoped that it was all just going to keep going up hill. It only took a day to realize that we really didn’t take a step forward; it was more of a step backwards. The doctors didn’t think that there was much of anything left that they could do. They needed to take him off the ventilator. They started to wean him off a little at a time. His breathing wasn’t doing well at all, but they needed to take him completely off the ventilator. The doctors told my grandma, “We are going to taking him off the ventilator, and there is a huge chance that as soon as it’s out he won’t be able to breathe alone.” My grandma responded with a loud sob as she held my father close to her.

Group by group, we went back into his room and told him words of encouragement and gave him kisses on the cheek and forehead; it was almost like he had already passed away. We older grandkids waited outside his room in the hallway. All of our parents, his children, were in the room while they took him off of the ventilator. We waited in anticipation until my Aunt Kelly came out crying. I fell to the ground, breathless. The pain I felt was unrealistic. I couldn’t stop crying, and the crying only increased as my dad came out to hold us in a hug. After a while we had to go out to tell this children what had happened and that grandpa was with Jesus now. Their pain was just as great as mine. Everything from that day on and after was a blur. We went from being at Mercy Hospital, thinking that it was just a minor illness and he was going to get better in time to him being in Toledo Hospital, dead.

The memorial and funeral were like him re-dying over and over again. People came and hugged me and told me how he was a great man and how sorry they felt for my loss. Every person’s comment hit like a punch to the gut, as it was a reminder that he was actually gone. My grandpa was such a jokester; it was hard to take him seriously sometimes. Seeing him there in the casket felt like a mean joke, and he was going to pop back up and say, “Got you guys!” His laughter played through my head as I pictured him doing that. I think the only reason that I made it through his death were the memories that I shared with him, and the fact that he was finally home.