Right now I feel numb, almost physically sick.
It's not like I have a virus or anything; depression is too much.
I'm thinking too much, I'm remembering too much, but hey, that's what happens, right?
My poppop's death is something that's irritating my mind.
He was one of the people I loved most in my entire life, somebody who loved me as much as any grandfather possibly could love their granddaughter. He and my mommom spoiled me, my sister, my cousins constantly. In elementary school, whenever I or my sister was sick and had to stay home from school, they'd always take us in for the day, play Yahtzee with us, or Go Fish. I always remembered coming home, finding cute, cheap little dollar-store toys, or candy, or something to put in our garden. (Not that we really planted much often, because we were always so busy, but it made it look nice.) For Christmas and my birthday, I'd literally get showered in presents and hell, even money. (Cards filled with $50 - $100 bills.) Both of them would always come on vacations with us, mostly to Florida. Every weekend they'd go down to their trailer at Rehobeth Beach, and we'd all join them at some point of the week. There's just too much I can remember of them, and I honestly hope I never forget everything they'd ever done for me, for their family.
Now, I'd known that he had liver cancer for years. There'd been days that my mom had to take off of work to go to Philadelphia in order to get him proper treatment. A shot of this, tumors are gone. A month later, the tumors are back. In August of 2010, he'd been hospitalized because he had a tumor in his arm, and behind his knee, both of which were being slowly fractured because of the tumors. So, he had to get proper surgery for them, which I honestly was okay with. I wanted him to get better, and if being there was the only way, then I was okay. I remember visiting him in his hospital room, my mom, sister, and mommom being there. (Mommom and my mother stayed there for as long as visiting hours were.) I remember sitting on the hot windowsill, because there were no other chairs in the room, and I honestly didn't care because I just wanted to know that he was there, breathing, alive, not in pain. It was pretty heartbreaking, seeing him laying there, having to use some sort of leash-thing in order to sit up; I knew he had to go through physical therapy, which he dreaded. My poppop always, literally, always had to be doing some sort of handy-work, preferably outdoors. But the day I visited him, I knew he'd be home by the next week.
Now, I'd known that he had liver cancer for years. There'd been days that my mom had to take off of work to go to Philadelphia in order to get him proper treatment. A shot of this, tumors are gone. A month later, the tumors are back. In August of 2010, he'd been hospitalized because he had a tumor in his arm, and behind his knee, both of which were being slowly fractured because of the tumors. So, he had to get proper surgery for them, which I honestly was okay with. I wanted him to get better, and if being there was the only way, then I was okay. I remember visiting him in his hospital room, my mom, sister, and mommom being there. (Mommom and my mother stayed there for as long as visiting hours were.) I remember sitting on the hot windowsill, because there were no other chairs in the room, and I honestly didn't care because I just wanted to know that he was there, breathing, alive, not in pain. It was pretty heartbreaking, seeing him laying there, having to use some sort of leash-thing in order to sit up; I knew he had to go through physical therapy, which he dreaded. My poppop always, literally, always had to be doing some sort of handy-work, preferably outdoors. But the day I visited him, I knew he'd be home by the next week.
Things seemed to be going well for him, for us, as school rolled around, my freshman year in high school. Both he and my mommom were so proud of me making it to high school. (With the big kids!) As things seemed to be getting better, he had to use a crutch to get around most of the time, or a walker.
October 1st was his birthday, he was 78, we were all over his house to celebrate. And I will never forget the look on his face. The look of pure agony, the tears in his eyes, simply because it was too painful for him to use his left leg. "It's too painful, but um, honey, I'll be okay. I'm just going to go to bed." Have you ever felt your heart literally, break? It felt as if somebody was beating my chest with their fist and then stepped on me; like they tore open my ribcage just to rip my heart straight out of my chest. I felt empty, completely hollow. It'd been the worst site I'd ever seen.
I remember is exactly -- Friday, November 5th, 2010, 6:37 pm.
It was raining on and off all day, but the sky had been dark the entire time.
I knew it, I knew something bad was going to happen that day, I could completely sense it.
I knew it, I knew something bad was going to happen that day, I could completely sense it.
I had been laying in bed since I got home earlier that day at around 2:45, because the day before, I'd contracted a nasty head-cold, along with that came a migraine; the kind that's sensitive to light and to sound. I remember, I was half asleep when I saw the basement light flicker on and heard my dad coughing as he was making his way down the stairs. He opened my door and, quite gently, shook my shoulder, "Allison?" My head was literally pounding, I thought my brain was swelled against my skull. He called my sister to come to the bottom of the steps. When she was standing next to him, he took in a deep breathe. I knew something wasn't right, I knew it had to do with my poppop.
The day before, my mom was driving me home from school, trying to force the urge to not cry.
I asked her, "What's wrong?"
"It's poppop; he's...not okay."
The first thought that popped into my head was, "He's dead."
The first thought that popped into my head was, "He's dead."
"He's alive, he's just not okay. He's agitated, he's been snapping at me and mommom all day."
Now, my poppop never snapped at anybody. Ever. At least, not what I'd seen. I mean, I'd only known him for 14 years out of his 78.
Now, my poppop never snapped at anybody. Ever. At least, not what I'd seen. I mean, I'd only known him for 14 years out of his 78.
My dad inhaled again before calmly telling the both of us, "Poppop just died."
At that moment, I didn't feel anything. I didn't want to feel anything, because I know that what I heard was just part of my dream; I thought, "I'm hallucinating, I'm just that sick." The last time I saw him alive was 2 days before that, Wednesday, just my mother and I. We were just visiting. My poppop seemed to be in good spirits, he was laughing and bragging about his new haircut. Before I left, my final words to him were, "See you later, love you."
I stared at my dad, and questioned, "...What?"
"Poppop just died."
So I got out of bed. I changed. We drove over to their house. I remember walking through their front gate, through the front door, greeted by a dimly-lit room. My cousin, Traci, was wiping the tears from her eyes in the corner. (She was going to turn 21 in about 2 weeks.) On one of their couches was some woman I didn't recognize on the phone, naming their address. Then I figured, it was probably the in-home nurse assigned by the hospital for my poppop's recovery. My mom walked out from his bedroom, and hugged me. She hugged me as if I was going to leave her; I wasn't planning on it, given the circumstances. She told me, "He's not in pain anymore. He's laying on his bed, he looks the most peaceful he's ever looked since the summer. Do you want to go in there?"
I told her, not yet, I wasn't ready.
I just sat on the couch, thinking. This isn't real, I told myself, but it was, and I had to face reality -- My poppop, is dead. I thought, no, this kind of thing couldn't happen to us, not this family, we're too close to him for him to leave.
But he was dead.
At that moment, I didn't feel anything. I didn't want to feel anything, because I know that what I heard was just part of my dream; I thought, "I'm hallucinating, I'm just that sick." The last time I saw him alive was 2 days before that, Wednesday, just my mother and I. We were just visiting. My poppop seemed to be in good spirits, he was laughing and bragging about his new haircut. Before I left, my final words to him were, "See you later, love you."
I stared at my dad, and questioned, "...What?"
"Poppop just died."
So I got out of bed. I changed. We drove over to their house. I remember walking through their front gate, through the front door, greeted by a dimly-lit room. My cousin, Traci, was wiping the tears from her eyes in the corner. (She was going to turn 21 in about 2 weeks.) On one of their couches was some woman I didn't recognize on the phone, naming their address. Then I figured, it was probably the in-home nurse assigned by the hospital for my poppop's recovery. My mom walked out from his bedroom, and hugged me. She hugged me as if I was going to leave her; I wasn't planning on it, given the circumstances. She told me, "He's not in pain anymore. He's laying on his bed, he looks the most peaceful he's ever looked since the summer. Do you want to go in there?"
I told her, not yet, I wasn't ready.
I just sat on the couch, thinking. This isn't real, I told myself, but it was, and I had to face reality -- My poppop, is dead. I thought, no, this kind of thing couldn't happen to us, not this family, we're too close to him for him to leave.
But he was dead.
About 10 minutes later, I felt as if I was ready. If my 12 year old sister could go in there, to say goodbye, then so could I. I wanted to go in alone, I didn't want any disturbances. I slowly walked in there, terrified of what I was about to see. I saw him, my poppop, the man who cherished me as if I was his actual kid instead of grandkid, laying on his bed, still. I touched his face. He was still a little warm. I was softly caressing his cheeks and told him, "Hello." That's when the tears started welling; I got up on the bed, and laid next to him. I just laid there with my head on his chest, talking to him. I continued a conversation we'd had in the exact same place the week before; I'd talked about school, about my sister, about my friends, just about anything. I looked at his face, and realized, he did look peaceful. His eyes were closed, his mouth was slightly open just a tad. He was dressed in his favorite kind of outfit -- White, V-neck undershirt and tan khaki's -- and just looked so...at ease. And after that, I got up, whispered, "See you later, love you." and asked my dad if I could go home.
Later that night, a friend called me, unaware of what'd happened, and after he asked me how I was, I explained to him what happened and just cried. I cried for nearly an hour because I realized, no more visits, no more conversations, no more fun, no more poppop. Things were going to be too different and I wasn't ready for that kind of change, no, I was only 14, I don't go through things like this at 14.
Later that night, a friend called me, unaware of what'd happened, and after he asked me how I was, I explained to him what happened and just cried. I cried for nearly an hour because I realized, no more visits, no more conversations, no more fun, no more poppop. Things were going to be too different and I wasn't ready for that kind of change, no, I was only 14, I don't go through things like this at 14.
After the call, I tried to sleep. It was around 1 am, and I was thinking far too much. Then I thought, the doctors said he'd get better. The doctors promised us a good recovery.
And at that moment, I hated doctors. I hated that they'd given me and my family false hope. I hate that it seemed like they didn't do enough, they didn't put in their all to help us. I needed somebody to blame at that moment in time.
And at that moment, I hated doctors. I hated that they'd given me and my family false hope. I hate that it seemed like they didn't do enough, they didn't put in their all to help us. I needed somebody to blame at that moment in time.
The next Thursday, was his funeral. It was beautiful, just like him. There was his urn, sitting in the front of the room, surrounded by what seemed like thousands of flowers. Before it was over, I was standing next to my mom, and I stared at it. My mom put her arm around my shoulders and I remember, I buried my face into her chest, telling her, "I don't want to say goodbye."
It's been almost 7 months since that November day, and I will never forget him, I will never forget everything about him.
tldr; it's almost 2:30 am on a school night and i wish i wasn't alive so i spent the past hour typing up something on my mind.
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