Spring break
from college was barely underway, and I found myself driving to a hospital
downtown. I quickly parked the family car on a street near the entrance and
headed upstairs to be with everyone. My parents got a parking ticket in the
mail later, because I wasn’t really allowed to park there. My lack of concern
and attention at the moment was overshadowed by my worry for the man lying in
the hospital bed. I walked in and blinked in surprise. Why were there so many
people? Purses and belongings were everywhere, like the room had become a
second home. A tall, off-white sheet hung from the ceiling splitting the room
in half, and the lighting was terrible. So dark. Doctors and nurses scurried
around. My parents were in the room, but it was my aunt who held me tight and
told me the truth. She gingerly touched my face in both of her hands and
relayed the shocking information that broke my young heart. Her eyes welled up
as she said the very words to me that I feared the most. "Your Grandpa. He's not going to make it."
I found out that
my grandpa was sick near the end of the fall semester of my junior year of
college. I was about to walk into my Human Growth and Development class when my
mom called my cell phone. She told me Grandpa had been taken by ambulance to
the hospital, but they didn’t know how severe it was at the time. Kevin was by my side when I heard the news, and he held
me for a few moments before I walked into class by myself. Coincidentally, my professor
was prepared that day to lecture on Death and Dying. The title of the in-class
reflection essay was, “If you had the chance to show a loved one how you really
felt before they passed away, what would you do?” I wrote about the shocking
news I had just heard and how I felt. I pushed my hair to the side and laid my
head down on my extended left arm. I reflected, wrote slowly, and cried. I
didn’t fear the worst, but I was suddenly very aware of the possibility. I hated
the timing and prayed for strength to get through until I was home.
That essay
turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I brainstormed about
a very special Christmas present for my grandparents. For the next month, I
compiled several memories from all of my siblings and cousins and pasted them
in a large frame. I loved overseeing the project, because I read every single
note from each person. Each memory they described made me smile. I could relate
to most memories, but some talked about memories they had with Grandpa before I
was even born. I felt like I had opened a treasure chest and got to explore the
contents before giving it to its rightful owner. The look on Grandma’s face
when she opened the present was precious. We did it. We had our chance to say
what we wanted to say to our grandpa, because we thought it might be his last
Christmas. We were right.
Somehow
learning about Grandpa’s illness around Christmastime helped us cope. On my
Mom’s side of the family, Christmas was always a big deal to us, because it brought
all of the cousins together. Grandpa and Grandma’s house held all of us
comfortably, and that is a big deal. Between four daughters, their husbands,
and over 20 grandkids, we still somehow had room to roam. Their house felt like
a mansion to the kids, and there was always somewhere the girls could sneak off
to play games and talk. More often than not, the boys and girls played game
after game of Monopoly or Clue, teasing and laughing the whole time. Soon we
would end up wrestling each other and running around the house. (If we ran
through the kitchen, the adults would scold us and smack our bottoms as we ran
by!) Christmas time was really “shenanigan time” with the cousins and we ate it
up. Our faces grew beet red from all the energy we were expending, and the
adults grew tired of our rowdiness pretty quickly. Time for presents came
around, and we all crammed into the living room. Grandpa and Grandma had set up
a gorgeous Christmas tree with dozens of presents. We anxiously sat around and
listened intently as Grandpa boomed out name after name. He wore his goofy
Santa hat and crawled around on his hands and knees to hand out presents. One
year my parents gave out hammocks from Brazil, and grandkids piled in with big
grins on their faces. Grandpa and the uncles took turns swinging the hammocks
with their bare hands, and the giggles were incessant. The pictures that
Christmas were priceless. No one wanted those Christmases to end.
Back to the the awful day in the hospital room. It
didn’t seem real. My whole body froze and then shook as if I had a fever. My
hair stuck to my face, and I went through tissue after tissue. I waited and
waited to speak to my grandpa, because so many people were around. I didn’t
know that my conversation with him would be the last genuine time I had with
the strong Grandpa I knew and loved my whole life. I didn’t know that this was
goodbye.
I hesitated
but pulled up a chair next to his bed. Of course, there were wires everywhere
and he was in an ugly hospital gown. His belly was filled with fluid, and he
was so uncomfortable. But he looked at me and talked to me like we always
talked. He called me Kimberly. We held hands, and I didn’t really know what to
say. He just kept shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe this was happening
to him. He didn’t like the idea of a disease eating away at him, piece by
piece. Half of his mouth drooped from a
case of Bells-Palsy he once had. His smile was permanently halved, and we loved
it that way. I didn’t see him smile on that hospital bed. He sat up the best he
could, and he still had strength to speak with his grand-daughter so carefully.
He didn’t like to see me so sad. I left bits of my young heart on that hospital
bed. My eyes stared deep into his and I told him that I didn’t want to say
goodbye. I told him that I didn’t want this to happen. I told him how much I
loved him. He shook his head again and said my name. He loved me right back. He
watched me grow up. From a blonde, spunky little girl to a grown woman. He
didn’t want to say goodbye, either. I hugged him about 10 times. Each time, I
didn’t want it to be the last. I thought it might, so I just hugged him again.
I didn’t want to leave him. His strong arms embraced me, and we said our
parting words. I forced myself to walk away and left the hospital with a devastating
reality shock.
Cornelius “Casey” Staal, passed away in his home two months later on May 31st,
2009. It was the week after the observed Memorial Day.
To be honest,
I had no idea that my grandpa’s death was going to affect me the way that it
did. We have lived in Texas since 2011, and I can’t even tell you the number of
times I have thought about him deeply. I have laid in bed, remembering the man
he was to me, and my heart beats slowly and sadly. I didn’t know how much he
truly meant to me until I had to say goodbye to him forever. I get flashbacks
of moments on the couch with him at our house in Michigan. He wrapped his arm
around my shoulders and held me so tight that I could smell his coffee breath.
He would dive into a speech for twenty minutes about the intricacies of his
watch or explain to me the details about working in a meat-processing facility.
I remembered a picture of him wearing a bloody apron and wondered how anyone
could enjoy working in a slaughterhouse. I didn’t really mind what we talked
about, because we were snuggled up together. When I was held by such a warm and
yet powerful man, I felt intense love and care. He always brought pure joy to
all of his grandkids when we showed up at his house. Snowmobile rides in the
winter were wild, and the piles he had plowed in his yard could have been
illegal. He should have patented some of his inventions, too. He cut large
barrels in half, put wood on the sides to stabilize it, and hooked up the
homemade sled to the back of the snowmobile. He made a teeter totter and
massive tire swings in the backyard. I can still remember the smell of the big
gray tire swing and the thrill of soaring through the air. He had a brilliant,
imaginative mind. He could be so tough on us, too, but I knew he always meant
well. He had my highest respect and reverent fear. There is a reason why his
name “Casey” lives on in several of the families on my mom’s side. Every time
he hugged me so tight, he squeezed a part of himself into me. It has never left,
and I am never letting it go.
