On Saturday morning my family got together at my grandpa’s residence to celebrate the family birthdays that had taken place over the past few weeks. We rent out a room in the care facility and just spend time together. This weekend held our third get together and I’m thankful for the short time we spent.
However, one thing was different. Really different. My grandpa was hooked to an IV and for the first time in a year, he looked really old. So old that if I wasn’t careful, the tears might start falling and never let up.
Within the last five years my grandpa stopped being the man I knew. He stopped laughing out loud. He stopped swimming. He also stopped remembering. (But he still hasn’t stopped eating ice cream, and I’m extremely grateful for that.) Since my grandma’s death in 2013, the battle of dementia started getting worse and rearing it’s ugly head, turning my once extremely active and playful grandpa into a man I hardly recognize somedays.
Praise God, however, my grandpa remembers my mom and aunt when they visit. That has been my biggest prayer, that he always, no matter what, remembers his kids. Especially my mom. My mom has so many memories with him, I become a floodgate even at the small thought of him potentially losing her face in the sea of confusion and fear.
Grandpa taught me how to swim the butterfly stroke and the backstroke with ease. He showed me how to blow up a balloon and how to be a better person. He introduced me to computer free cell and solitaire and is by far one of the smartest men I have ever met in and out of cyberspace.
My grandpa also taught me how to jump off diving boards as high as trees.
When I was younger, my grandpa and I in the summer would always go to one of the local quarries. I remember we would swim all the way out to the trampoline and we (my 70-year-old grandpa and I) would jump on it and push each other off and have a marvelous time. However, my grandpa knew me. He knew when I am faced with a challenge or a dare… I hardly back down. I enjoyed, much like he, choosing dare when the truth or dare options presented themselves.
Laying on one of the rafts in the deepest water I’ve ever swum in, he pointed to the highest diving board. It was the height of half the tallest sycamore tree I had ever seen. Literally. You had to climb the tree to get to it. He dared me and so after I swallowed a few gulps and shook off the nerves, I made my way to the ladder.
That day marks the scariest time in my childhood.
I’ll be perfectly honest, I peed myself a little. It was scary up there! I mean, the ladder alone was 3 times my height of four feet. They wanted us to jump from that? UHH.. I kept thinking about how I was going to die. I kept thinking about how I’ll never see the sunshine again. I’ll never get to color again. I’ll never get to see my mom or dad again. Or David again. I won’t be able to see the movie tonight. I started to tremble, and my wet body became suddenly very dry standing in that hot sun. So what did I do?
I looked down at him, wading below the board, took a deep breath and I jumped.
Fifteen years later, I’m still alive and with a smile permanently glued to my face when I think of this memory. It went from the scariest time to the happiest day of my life in my young years. I was alive and I had just conquered death. It was that day I earned an extra large blue icee and a front row seat at the drive-in with my grandparents.
About a year ago, I was playing with a balloon in my grandpa’s room. We treated it like a hot potato, not letting it touch the ground. We laughed and laughed for ten minutes straight and it was like we were both 10 and 68 again.
When I saw him on Saturday, with the IV plugged in, and his eyes looking as though he will never give up the fight, I hugged him deeply. I didn’t want to let go. I don’t want to let go. But there’s a part of me that feels he’s hearing the same voice I am, and it’s growing louder and louder each time I see him.
It’s a small voice saying, lovingly, “Jump!”.
And oh, how I’m going to miss him when he does.
