Grandpa

Hello gang,

Let me be clear when I state that this will most likely be an extremely long posting that could very well meander like a drunken beetle.

My Grandpa died.

Honestly, I knew one day I would have to write that down because it would be my new reality but I didn't think it would be this soon. Grandpa had, and was dying from, a terminal lung condition called Pulmonary Fibrosis. It was a disease he contracted due to his work with the Atomic Energy Commission earlier in life. Due to the fact that he wound up with a terminal illness from his job, the Department of Labor compensated him somewhat and his medical expenses were not a burden to him.

I do not specifically remember when the family was informed of Grandpa's medical status, but with the confirmation of the condition our lives changed. Grandpa needed to be on oxygen 24 hours a day. Through a nasal cannula he had a constant stream of oxygen of 2 liters helping his deteriorating lungs function as best they could. That was at the beginning of the disease. He could still walk around and partake in his normal activities. However, that began to change rapidly. I have pictures of him sitting on the beach making sand castles with Killian at Okoboji in July of 2009 without oxygen on. I have pictures of Honey on that same beach holding Murdoch. They are both gone now, and looking at that picture a night ago tore my heart to pieces.

As Grandpa's disease progressed it slowly suffocated him. He would turn his oxygen up to 4 liters when he was severely "winded" (asphyxiating, let's call a spade a spade), and need a very long time to recover to a more comfortable state of being. As of Christmas 2010, getting "very winded" happened after moving from inside a car to inside a house 25 feet away. As of spring 2011 walking from his office, with the aid of a wheeled walker, to his recliner 10 feet away it would take approximately 15 minutes of hyperventilating at 4 liters for him to even be able to breathe enough to speak. Before he passed, getting into and out of bed was enough to suck his near useless lungs dry of the precious oxygen his brain so desperately desired. We, most likely, have all experienced "air hunger". Holding your breath for as long as possible swimming underwater, sprinting as hard and as far as you could, etc. The difference is, coming up to the surface and filling your lungs with air or stopping the run made the pounding in your head and chest go away. It made the ever so slight feeling of "I can't breathe!" panic subside. Grandpa never got that reprieve. Even when he cranked his oxygen up as high as it would go and he could stabilize it was still not nearly enough to make him feel like his lungs were full and he could breathe easy. Grandpa's pulmonologist said that whenever he had new students he would make those students place a bag tightly over their heads and keep it on until the panic forced them to take it off. He then told his students to keep that horrid feeling in mind because that is what their patients live with each and every day, and they do not have the luxury of removing their metaphorical bags.  After his diagnosis, there never was a "better" for him. He felt worse in January than he did in December, worse in June than in April, worse in the middle of September than the beginning of September.

It was heartbreaking to see what the disease did to Grandpa. He was so full of life. He loved spending every minute he could out in the boat or on the dock fishing, tooling away in his extensive wood shop, working tirelessly at his church on restoration or improvement projects, driving to New York to visit my uncle's family, going to Iowa State athletic events. All of those things were taken from him one by one until he could do no more than go through papers in his office or watch his beloved Fox News and talk about the "assholes in Washington who were doing their damnest to ruin the best country in the world". I proudly learned every swear word I know from my father, and he definitely learned them from his father. Hell yes I swear profusely at times; it's a Thomas family tradition, damnit.

Last year we all got together for Christmas at my parent's house in Minnesota for a big Thomas Family Christmas. Think Griswold's with less zany mishaps and much, much more alcohol. My uncle, aunt, and two cousins flew out from New York and drove Grandpa and Honey up from Ames, Iowa so they could spend the holiday with all of their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The motive behind going to all efforts to get everyone together were simple; we all believed it was to be Grandpa's last Christmas. His fibrosis was unquestionably progressing and we were not at all sure we would have another opportunity to get everyone together in the same place at the same time in his (and Honey's presence). I took lots of pictures of Grandpa with the thought in my head that I most likely would not have another holiday to do so. In reality, since Matt and I now live in Texas and the progression of the disease was unknown and could become very rapid, I didn't know for certain that I would ever see him again since the next planned trip up north was not until July. It was so bittersweet for all of us that Christmas. We were so happy to all be together. Since we live in Texas and Kyle's family lives in New York we had not had an extended family Christmas in many years. But in the back of all of our minds was the reason this holiday was particularly important. It was, most likely, the last.

On our way back to Texas Matt and I stopped at Grandpa and Honey's house to visit for a bit as a little surprise. It was January 1st, 2011. Honey swung the front door open and her smile lit up in pure joy as she invited us in. She was up and moving about, and even got down on the floor to play with the boys. Grandpa did his best to move around the house and be part of everything that was going on, but he clearly wasn't on the physical level he longed to be. After a few hours we said our goodbye's a piled in the car. I remember crying to Matt that I couldn't shake the thought that that visit could be the last I had with a man I loved so much.

As you all know, Honey died in May. Within days of returning to her home after the holiday's her health began to falter and she slowly withered away until her death on May 13th. Grandpa tried with everything he had to be as attentive as possible to Honey in her final weeks and days. They had 24 hour hospice care in their house to help with Honey, and they wound up taking a good deal of care of Grandpa too. He simply didn't have it in him to make her lunch, help her change clothes, or move from her bed to a chair. I don't think I really thought about it then since I was so focused on caring for Honey, but I was watching both of my grandparents die. One more slowly than the other. After we buried Honey we all talked amongst ourselves that we knew in our hearts Grandpa would not want to live for very long without her. She was his world for 59 and a half years, and now she was gone and he was left with an empty house, a failing body, and a broken heart.

In July we took our annual family trip to Okoboji for a week. It was the first year Honey had not been with us, and due to his health, Grandpa was not going to be making the journey for the whole week either. There are no words to describe how it felt to go into their cabin and have them not in there for the first time in my 30 years of life. Where were their voices? Where was Honey's cardigan? Where was Grandpa's wood whittling equipment? And why wasn't there a goddamned TV tuned to Fox fucking News?!?! It was a parallel universe of suck. There's no better way to put it.

Grandpa's neighbors agreed to drive him up to the lakes for a very short stay where he would sleep in a hotel to escape the heat and get all the rest he required. To say it took a great deal of work to execute that plan is a gross understatement. The trip took more out of Grandpa than anyone could have ever expected, and consequently it was very hard on his equally aged neighbors. But he was there, and he had that day and a half with him to go to our favorite restaurant, have a picnic at the cabin, and salvage what joy we could knowing all the while that he would not make it to the lakes again. Our family has talked of that short trip often since it happened, and while popular consensus is that we never should have agreed to let him do it I wouldn't give a split second of that time back. As it turns out, we had little time left with him at all.

At the beginning of August Grandpa bought a condo out at Greenhills in Ames. Greenhills is a place for elderly persons who do not yet need assisted living or long term nursing home care. His condo was completely independent living. He chose to have meals delivered rather than go to the cafeteria, and paid for the wonderful CNA's at Wesley-life (the company whose hospice CNA's cared for Honey) come out to help him with various daily activities. He moved what he wanted from his house to his condo, but kept ownership of the house in the meantime. His plan had been to slowly ready the house for sale sometime late this fall. Greenhills does have a Care Center that will do hospice care and some nursing home care, but it is not a nursing home styled facility. Roughly two weeks after moving into his condo Grandpa began experiencing chest pains and was transported by ambulance to the hospital where testing confirmed he has suffered a mild heart attack. After spending roughly a week inpatient he was discharged on the condition that he stay in the Care Center for at least two weeks before resuming life in his condo.

 He was unhappy about being in the Care Center to say the least. He wanted to go back to a more normal life. After some inquiring it was decided that with the aid of the CNA's from Wesley-life he could spend about four hours a day in his condo before returning to the Care Center, and he was happy to have that independent time. During his period of what we, at the time, believed to be convalescence from the heart attack I spoke to my mother almost daily and always inquired as to how Grandpa was feeling physically as well as mentally. She always gave me a full report and then reminded me that he had his phone and I was welcome to call him at any time. I couldn't do it. Numerous times I had virtually the entire number dialed and then would stop myself from hitting the all important send button. I did not want to deal with the reality that he was definitely declining. I didn't want to acknowledge the heart attack, or that he was basically in a nursing facility, or that his disease was progressing rapidly. It hurt to much and I knew I would not be able to get through a call without bursting into tears. So I decided denial was the better route. Get information through a third party while pretending this wasn't really happening. It was the wrong choice, and I will live with the guilt and pain that my own denial and fear prevented me from talking to Grandpa during his final two weeks on Earth. He passed suddenly. Friday night he was up talking and eating dinner with friends, and at 3:10pm Saturday he was gone. He had had enough and wanted to see Honey and go Home. I cannot describe how his loss feels, the grief is still too great.

At the funeral and visitation people were bombarding me with the "He's with God, he's with Jan, he's not in pain anymore" junk that people say because they want to help the grieving person to ease their pain. I understand all of that, and as a Christian I agree with all of those statements. He is in a better place where his is spry and with Honey. But that does nothing currently to assuage my pain over his loss, and if anything I get angrier each time someone tries to silver lining his death with a God-bomb. Did God have to suffocate my grandfather to call him home? Did he have to break my grandfather's heart before he could go to heaven? Did God need to take my father and uncle's parents in only four month's time? Did God need them both to have agonizing deaths where in the end they begged for the mercy of death? Don't tell me how great it is that they are both with God. I already know that in my heart and in my soul. But right now in my purely human emotional self, I am angry. I am angry that people who were so good, and so loved, had to die they way they did and in such a short time. I am angry that people think they can say "They're together, and with God" and that will somehow make me feel better. I am angry that all I have of two of the people I loved most in life are pictures and little mementos. I am angry that the person who poured endless amounts of love into making the most beautiful box to store the memories, pictures, and ashes of my stillborn son is now also dead. I am angry that I will never walk into their house in Ames again. I am angry I never got to dance with my grandfather again. I am angry that we will never go fishing again. I am angry that Honey and I will not be the only two people freezing inside Mrs. Lady's (a restaurant) again. I am angry that they are gone, and that there are not going to be any new memories.

Four months ago I had three grandparents, and they were the same three I had the day I was born. Now I have one.

We were right about needing to get our whole family together for Christmas last year. It was indeed Grandpa's last, though we had no idea it would be Honey's last as well. And it was the very last time the whole Thomas family was together at the same time, in the same place. And please, please don't give me this existential bullshit about how they were there with us in spirit. One day I will be there in my particular stage of grief, but that day is not today.