My Grandfather died four years ago. I watched him go from a strong, intelligent man to a feeble and helpless one. Shackled to a body he no longer wanted to inhabit, watching the world continue on while he was no longer able to take part in it.
I hated it.
I hated that he could no longer walk, I hated that I had to cut his food up for him, I hated that he could no longer take care of himself or even control his own bowel movements.
He gave me the death talk one day.
I sat beside his hospital bed while a TV droned on in the background when he told me he was ready to die. He was a very old man and had led a good life, there was simply too much wrong with him. He told me he hoped there was something on the other side. A few months later he was gone. My last words to him were “ I love you Grandad”.
I cried like a baby at his funeral. It’s normal for our grandparents to die long before us. I think a big part of the wisdom they give to us is to teach us about death, I’m still a young man and it was the first time I’d come face to face with dying while able to comprehend it.
My Mother gave me the old recliner that he was always in when I went to see him. I have a lot of good memories looking at him through the screen door right before I walked inside to say hello.
I’ve had it all this time and only recently do I wake up in the middle of the night to his deep baritone voice calling me from downstairs like it did so many times throughout my childhood.
I never feel any fear from this.
Only when I see him it isn’t the strong and healthy man of my childhood. It’s the withered hospital patient.
He looks at me with pleading eyes and says “please carry me to bed I am so tired”. I pick him up and begin to walk but I can never get there fast enough. He withers away in my arms, becoming a skeleton before turning to dust.
I tell my Mother about this and she thinks I’m dreaming.
I am not.
The chair is always warm and has the unmistakable look of someone just being in it. The stains from the incontinence he suffered at the end of his life are always there no matter how many times it is cleaned.
I swear to God I even hear him turning the pages of the newspaper and smell the black coffee he drank by the pot.
I can never help him. I know I can’t. But still, I gather up the husk of his body and try my best. I always cry the rest of the night afterwards.
I don’t know why I am being punished. I am a reformed alcoholic and have admittedly done a lot of harm in my life. But I never harmed him and I cannot throw the recliner out. I feel like I’m locked in an endless cycle of grief. What do I do?
I don’t have anyone I can turn to about this. If any of you have any advice please help me. Don’t suggest an exorcism, I will never intentionally harm Grandad.