A Granddaughter's Heart

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.