It had been three years since he really lived, so what was the point in saving him anyway?  When people think of depression, they envision troubled teens blindly chopping their way through the forest of life, taking a machete to everything in their wake.  Few conceptualize the terrible loss and hopelessness someone feels after losing the person he built his entire existence with.  People visualize old people and see Oldsmobiles, Orthopedic shoes, and a quiet condo in Florida.  Not once does the thought cross their minds that these people can struggle, too.  Not many realize that at the end of someone’s life they can still not have everything figured out.    Three lonely years my grandfather spent traveling, exercising, and drinking away the loss of his wife, my Grandma Rose.  Teary-eyed at even the thought of her beautiful aura she always protruded, he misses her more than I think anyone could ever fathom. But even the incomparable sadness my grandfather feels has no affect on how angry we all are with what has happened.

According to my mother and my uncles, my grandfather has always been the impossibly stubborn, Marine-produced, unreachable man he is now.  Being a psychologist himself, he always had the notion to “fix” people, never taking notice that he could be the one needing repair.  Also, a notorious drinker and an overly opinionated socialist, he had the knack for inappropriately wording everyday statements.  It has become worse in older age, as well as similarly charming to the naked eye because no one seems to take him seriously.  My grandfather’s mind works in no series of decisions and thoughts, no wheels turning at a slow pace, chewing over what needs to be said.  My grandfather acts and then thinks, no reaction set at bay.  This military-based man and his wife of fifty plus years were on a track of life that was supposed to take them to the grave until he was hit, and my grandmother fell ill.

The blow of my grandmother’s stroke blew a hole right through the family--through my mother, who was left mercilessly to an uneven 4:1 male to female ratio, through my aunts and uncles, who were left shell shocked by the sudden stroke my grandmother underwent, and through the dozens of grandkids whose life she so greatly touched in every way.  But most of all, my grandfather completely lost his way through this jungle of life.  He started acting strangely, not in ways that crazy grandparents act.  He drank more, adopted an uncanny disposition, and to me, he stopped being the grandpa I always knew.  My mother grew angry with him, and over the last three years, we had become less and less connected to the chain that my grandma was once the lynch pin. 

A cold clear night and a late volleyball game set the scene to the tragedy yet to come.  Once at home, I showered off the sore muscles and sweat of the day, recalling the evening’s games and disappointed I hadn’t played as well as I should have.  Little did I know that those miniscule problems would soon be overshadowed.  The call came suddenly, like a blaring alarm announcing the time for misfortune.  “Your father had a heart attack,” the nurse said to my mother.  “It’s not looking good.”  My first thought was that he was going to die, estranged from his entire family.  Frantically, I reached for my mother, holding her and trying to choke out consolations.  I said despairingly, “Everything is going to be all right.”  She and my father quickly packed overnight bags and sped off toward the hospital, one hour away.  “Call me if you need anything,” I uttered, knowing my words were virtually powerless. Scattered thoughts and memories raced through my head over the next few hours, nothing particularly sticking in my vision.  It’s funny how quickly time passes when waiting for news, how the hands of the clock would run off the face, leaving me in the dust. 

Sleep was not a visitor that night, for I didn’t want to miss a single shred of news. I turned over in my mind one question: “Had my grandfather died without his family’s reconciliation?”  After a long night of wondering, I finally had an answer with the sunrise. He had made it. He was stable and recovering. The doctors said the valves he recently had surgery on had completely closed, and although he could live without a few of them, they searched for the reason why they closed. I learned about opportunity that day: How life is a series of doors, choices, and opportunities. From there I was plagued with two difficult doors.  I am either going to accept my grandfather has become someone different with all of his weird and inappropriate antics, or I am going to stop communicating with him altogether.  I could completely cut him off, too hurt with his decisions of the past.  My decision? I haven’t made a decision yet.  The future is scary and holds uncertainty.  I trust God, and I trust my parents in their dealings; and I hope every day that this plaguing situation will turn around.