My First Last Words

It was unusually gusty today.

The crisp winds of autumn mutated into the biting winds of winter, ripping droves of colorful leaves from their branches. I received a phone call from my mother:


"Kristi, Grandpa is dying. He probably has two or three days left."


The first sentence is not what caught me off guard. My grandpa has been "dying" of stomach cancer for the better part of two years. It was the second sentence that jerked the breath out of my lungs and words from my mouth.


I remember being in an airport a few years back. I don't recall where I was traveling to, but as I was standing in the security line, I remember seeing a sign with twenty-five faces on it. Five across, five down. Every third face was in black-and-white. The caption read "1 out of every 3 Americans develops cancer in their lifetime." I remember thinking "Wow, that's weird. I don't know anybody who has cancer."


Time changes things.


I knew my grandpa was in bad shape. Prior to this news, the most recent verdict given to us by doctors was three-to-six months. They've been saying that for two years now. They've been saying that through chemotherapy, radiation and surgery. You become numb to it after a while--hearing the same predictions again and again after the old ones are surpassed. But now; to have it cut down so drastically without warning. To have Death looking you straight in the eyes and saying "I'm taking him now whether you like it or not." To inhale and wonder if he's doing the same.


It's not like I thought my grandpa was invincible. I knew he would pass on eventually. Maybe I'd fooled myself into thinking that that cowboy spirit of his had a little more fight in it. I don't know.


Writing about him in past tense is macabre. Which makes sense, seeing as how he IS still alive. Yet I almost can't help doing it. Each "was," "had," and "did" pricks at my heart like a tweezer.


Upon hearing the news from my mother, my mind went ajumble. Should I drop everything and drive to Colorado or stay put? I asked advice. Mom was of the opinion that since my last indelible memory of Grandpa was of him healthy and happy, I should remain and Utah and let things run their course in Colorado.

There have been times when I visited my grandpa being certain that I would never see him again, but he always seemed to have one more life left in him (we joke that he's like a cat in that regard). The last time I saw Grandpa, he looked great and was full of vigor. Our goodbye was a happy one. A hug, a kiss, an "I'll-see-you-later" and shutting of the front door. I guess it's better to see a person for the last time not knowing it will be the last time.

Regardless of all this, I now had a very difficult task ahead of me. Since I would not be near my grandpa as the curtains fell on his life, my mother suggested I write a letter to him which she would read in the hospital at his bedside.


I would have to write my first last words.


Saying your last words and writing your last words are two entirely different things. When your words are spoken, you say whatever comes to mind at the moment and hope it's meaningful. If not, you may regret it, yes, but you always have the excuse of "How can you possibly know the right things to say in an emotional instant like that?"


When writing your last words, there's no such excuse. You have hours before you to collect your thoughts, create sentences and change words. Hours to weed out the unimportant and say what you truly feel. If you have regrets with what is said, the fault is yours and yours alone.

I sat down at the computer. How to even start? "Dear Grandpa?" Too generic. "To Grandpa?" Too sterile.


"Tick, tock. Tick, tock." That was it.


My fingers fluttered across the keyboard as I spent the next four hours condensing my most cherished memories into four pages. They were the most emotional four hours I've experienced in a long time, perhaps ever. To say that I was sent on a proverbial "roller coaster of emotions" is an understatement. My soul was rent from its bodily home and thrown into a drying machine; tumbling about in the heat of anguish, its buttons clanking in protest of my grandfather's passing.


This Letter to my grandpa wasn't an "I laughed, I cried" experience. I just cried. And cried and cried and cried some more. Every now and then my lips would curve into a slight smile upon the reminiscence of a fond memory, but the better part of the Letter was written in tears.


It came time to end the Letter. How can you possibly wrap up a lifetime of memories into a few meager sentences? How do you adequately express the extent of your love with several dozen intangible characters?


You can't write a kiss. You can't write a hug. You can't write a one-last-glance-over-your-shoulder.


I tried my best, and I'm satisfied with how it turned out. But that doesn't make things easy. Nothing does. I thought the fact that my grandpa has lived a long and happy life would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in heaven would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in eternal families would make this easy. It doesn't. Do all these things bring me some degree of comfort and relief? Absolutely. But even the best anesthesia wears off.


My grandpa is going home.

In my heart of hearts, I'm ready for it. Someday we'll see each other again, someday we'll laugh again (oh, Grandpa's laugh!), someday we'll do that little thingy where we

shake hands and

squeeze real hard and

try to outlast the other person but

I always give in because

he's about to break my metacarpals with

those crazy Marine hands of his

again.

Someday we'll talk again. Of this I have no doubt.

But for now, there can be silence. I'm done with my first last words.