Sad, sad, sad

It's been an awful week. I guess it's been a bit more then a week now. Who knows anymore? It's become so hard to keep track of what time it is, or even what day it is anymore. As hard as it is, I think it's important for me to write about this stuff. I need to get it off of my chest.

Tuesday morning I received a phone call. My Grampy had a stroke the night before. We were weakly hopeful. I would be called when news was offered. I few hours later I received a call from my father. It didn't look like Grampy would make the night. You need to come home. I cried. I screamed. I rocked back and forth. I don't know if I can actually describe to anyone just how much I loved my Grampy. He means so much to me. He's always been there. Always. And he's always shown his love, clearly, to me, unlike many others I grew up with.

I made it home that night, 9:30. My little brother let me into the locked doors of the hospital. My Grampy, that man full of life, fight and fun, was lying on the bed. An oxygen mask on his face. His chest rising slightly. His eyes tightly closed. I broke down. I refused to sit next to him. I also refused to leave that room that night. I stayed, sure he would be gone soon. As the night grew on, I was able to sit next to him. Hold his hand. Whisper in his ear how much I loved him.

He was still alive the next morning. And the next night. My Aunt Bonnie and older brother were coming that night. We said that he was waiting for them. The night before he seemed to be in a lot of pain, and was given medication which seemed to calm him. The twitching and kicking stopped. Unless I placed a cold cloth on his forehead, or unless someone told him "Bonnie and John Mitchell are almost here." Oh, how he kicked.

He survived the night. And the next day. His whiskers were growing. It was awful. My Grampy never had a beard. He was always clean shaven and well dressed, he always smelled lightly of Old Spice. That night, Thursday, was awful. His breathing stopped at least 15 times. Probably more. I almost screamed at him to just let go, stop fighting. We were going to be ok without him. It would be hard, but we would be able to go on, eventually. But he would regain his breath. The next morning, as I had every other morning, I left to go home for my shower, but I didn't think I could come back. I had been there every day and every night, but that night was awful. Awful. I didn't know if I had it in me to give anymore. I stayed home for a few hours, tried to sleep, played with the baby, cried on Clayton...

It was John Mitchell who convinced me to go back. The nurses, the wonderful, wonderful nurses, shaved him. He was clean cut now. And apparently his breathing was better, and his color too. I went back. My Nanny Barb jumped up and hugged me, told me she was so glad I came back. I kept up my vigil. I owed it to him. I had been away for so long. I owed it to him to be there for him.

Now were were waiting for my cousin Jeremy to fly home, as well as one of Grampy's sisters. Friday they would be coming, her in the afternoon, him in the evening. We all knew he was waiting for Jeremy.

That night was hard. My grandmother said goodbye to Grampy for the second time in a week. Myself and my aunt, uncles, and mother sat in the TV room of the hospital and watched a Rankin's Family special. We laughed, some of us danced (my aunt is crazy)...We may have had cabin fever. Jeremy got there, as did Rob, and Clayton came too. The night was over, Mom, Bonnie and I were left alone with him again. My mother wrote his obituary, sure it would be over.

The next morning, he was the same. His breathing labored, but no more so then the night before. I wanted to scream. He was so stubborn. He was going to go on his own time, and that was it. My grandmother called that morning, as she always did. She told us "Maybe he needs to be alone to go. Why don't you three come on home for a bit. Have a shower, have some breakfast. Rest." We didn't want to go, but she did, so we started to tidy the room, and I called my Uncle Greg, and told him the news. I hung up the phone, turned to tell Mom and Bonnie not to forget their purses. When I got no answer, I turned back to the bed, and they were sitting beside him, mom holding up her hand. I stopped. I looked. He wasn't breathing. Mom yelled "Go get the nurses," I ran, in my sock feet, to the nurses station, tried to say "Wilena" but it didn't quite get out. The nurses followed. When I got back, he had taken another breath. Wilena took his pulse and told us it was time. Mom made me call my uncle Greg back to tell him to bring my grandmother. My hand was shaking so hard I could barely dial. When I hung up the phone, he took his final breath.

And it was finally over.

After all that waiting, it was finished. My Mother and Aunt cried as if their hearts were breaking. I sat there and shook, crying my own tears. We had asked for this so much during the last few days and when it happened, it was the last thing we wanted.

Then the phone calls, the family, the screaming of my grandmother, the sitting...It's all a haze. It didn't even feel real. Life was somewhat normal as we waiting for the funeral.

The funeral. I read. I'm still amazed I got through it. People tell me I did well. I don't know. I'm not a religious person, in fact I'm surprised that I didn't burst into flames, but I took comfort in the words that I spoke. I felt like I was doing something. Before and after the funeral, my grandmother told me many times how proud my Grampy would be of me. I think he would probably have told me to stop being so foolish, but who knows?

The graveside was the worst. I will never forget my grandmother screaming "no no no," or my mother "trying" to take my carnation from me (every other grandchild threw theirs into the grave with him, I felt bad about this, but as Mom reminded me, Grampy hated flowers, so would have been glad I kept mine). Rob and I left soon afterwards, came back from Halifax.

And my frustration continues. I don't know why. It just seems like I'm not happy. And I don't know what to do about it. I know a lot of it has to do with Grampy, but I was unhappy before hand too. And Rob is so touchy lately. I make suggestions and he snaps at me. I hide in the bedroom, he in the living room, and we live our lives separately. I need a job. That way I can have a real reason to hide from him. I shouldn't have to hide from him, or want to. I don't know what to do.

I just want to get this whole stupid holiday behind me.