Grandpa Heddie. (Or should it be spelled Headie?) When I was first learning to talk, I had a little trouble with my grandfather's name. Everyone got a chuckle out of my way of saying it, which probably only added to my confusion. Eventually, I learned how to spell "Heddie" and discovered it did not start with an 'h'. E-D-D-I-E.
My last remaining grandparent died a little over a week ago, on September 13, a day that is also notable as the rainiest day in Chicago history. A blog posting is hardly the medium to do justice to the whole of a man's life; but let me attempt a small piece of it.
After my grandmother died, Grandpa Eddie started spending his winters with his older sister in California. I took a trip out to visit the two octogenarians in 2002. While my grandfather was remarkably healthy for a man in his late eighties, I was a little concerned to see his belly protruding much more than I had remembered it. I wasn't sure what to make of it at the time. He had it checked out on his return to Chicago in the spring, and the news was grim. He had an
enormous tumor in his abdomen.
The doctors were reluctant to operate on a man of his age. They decided in favor of it on account of his extraordinary health, apart from the tumor. But it was a major operation, and no one knew if he would recover.
Eddie lost a kidney in that ordeal, but he made as full a recovery as we could hope for. Without the surgery, he would not have had long to live. In the six years following surgery, he lived at home indepedently. He got back on the golf course. He attended the weddings of five of his grandchildren and saw three great-grandchildren come into the world. At my wedding this past February, he got out on the ballroom floor and danced.
Still, he was left with just one kidney, and that kidney never quite took over the work of the one that was lost. His health gradually began to decline. (You can read about one harrowing episode in my posting titled
Reviving Edward, from the summer of 2005.) This spring, my grandfather's remaining kidney failed. He went to the hospital a couple of times, but there wasn't much they could do. After the second time, he was so weak that he needed physical therapy before he could go home. Then he went home, but the swelling in his extremities made it impossible for him to take care of himself. We knew the end was near.
I remember when I visited my grandfather when he was in the midst of one of his setbacks -- I think it was about two years ago. He lamented, "You can't stop it. You can't stop the decline."
The day before my grandfather died, I got a phone call from my mother. He was not doing well. My wife suggested that we visit him in the nursing home that evening, and that we pick up my sister on the way. We arrived in my grandfather's room just as my Aunt Judy and Uncle Joe were leaving. My grandfather was wide awake, and he greeted us with a broad smile. He looked better than I expected, and his voice was stronger than it had been when I had visited him the week before. He told us an amusing story about a woman who, in her state of dementia, would frequently wander into his room and try to get in his bed. But he also told of his discomfort -- his swollen, numb hands with their phantom pains. He held his hands out in front of him and looked at them, and I was reminded of his earlier lament.
As visiting hours were ending, my sister stood behind his wheelchair and rubbed his back. He leaned forward. Closed his eyes. And his breathing changed.
Does it feel good? Yes. I told him that I hoped I would see him again soon, and as I left I remembered to look back at him one last time. He was still smiling.
