I'm OK, I Just Need To Sleep

My grandfather, whom I always called Papa, was the type of man everyone remembers. He was sincere, strong, and kind.

 

When he was in the hospital this spring, unconscious and dying, I went to his house to search for his living will. This was during the worst week of my life, when my Papa lay in a bed unable to move or think or do anything. He was dead really, but his big, strong body was still alive with the help of a machine. The five of his six sons who still live were having a horrible time deciding what to do.

 

I found the living will stuffed in his chest of drawers with other old papers. He wanted to be let go. He had signed his name in several places.

 

So I cried. I told myself he was already gone. We all did. But it was still hard. It was official then.

 

Papa had always kept to himself. Not in any bad way—he was very much an individual. As wise as he was, he was simple, too. He kept this sign on the inside of the door to his bedroom. Whenever he felt bad or especially tired, the sign would be on the outside so no one would worry.

 

The last night he was in his house, I was asleep by 9 o'clock in mine. Last spring was the most difficult semester of college I ever had, and also my last. There was tons of work and study, so I kept strange hours. Lindsey opened the door that night and said, "Something's wrong with Grampa." She called him Grampa.

 

A flame scorched my insides. I was scared to death. My brother, nine years younger than me, was on the phone. Our dad had left in a hurry, but Carlyn stayed at home and thought to call me. I was dressed and in the car with Lindsey in about two minutes. Normally it takes about 20 minutes to drive to Norwood from our house, but we made it in nine. I had my hazard lights on and passed anyone I could. Lindsey was afraid and told me to slow down, but I couldn't. Nothing had ever been "wrong" with Papa before.

 

I left the car in the road behind the ambulance and sprinted in. He was on his old couch with paramedics on three sides. He looked terrible.

 

The fear and the fast driving had made me shaky, and my heart was dancing in real terror. The drama of television and movies is a funny lie.

 

I was in his house for just a few moments before he was brought out on a stretcher. As they pushed him to the door, both our hands reached out toward the other. His rough, old hands. They shaped wood, plowed fields, and moved metal for seven decades. It swallowed mine.

 

"You're going to be fine, Papa," I said. "I love you."

 

"I love you, too."

 

He never said anything else. He fell unconscious in the ambulance. Five days later his body died surrounded by his sons, grandsons, his last sister living, and a few other loved ones.

 

The last time we were all together before that night was one month earlier at his 79th birthday party. We were in one of the large back rooms at Rocky River Fish House. Papa said something to everyone: "If I had been born a rich man, I might have missed out on this." He let us know that he valued us, his big family more than anything else. It was out of his character to speak up in front of people. I think he knew he didn't have many birthdays left.

 

While I was looking for that living will, dreading the reality, I saw the sign taped to the back of his door. I got that rare feeling that a person only experiences a few times in his life—when someone who truly loves you goes away forever. It melts through you.

 

I drove back to the hospital hoping Papa had woken up.

Done