Caring For The Grandpa I Never Knew

I would like to share my personal journal from a few years ago, of the feelings and thoughts I had when I was a caretaker for my grandfather. My job was simple and clear: Make him comfortable until he dies. I hope you enjoy the first entry.

Feb. 26, 2016.

If someone had told me a few weeks ago that I would be in Tennessee, taking care of my grandfather, I would have laughed. I wasn't close to him. He hadn't been a big part of my life. None of my family ever really was, except for my brother, sister and mother. My Grandmother had told my mother that her father was dead as a child. On her 30th birthday, my mother met her father for the first time since she was the age of four. I had only known him for a short time as a little girl in middle school, and we never really got to bond then.

But here I am. In Tennessee. Taking care of my grandpa. As if I had been born and raised with him, always within arms reach. I suppose that part doesn't bug me. Because I loved him anyway, just like I love all of my family when I see them. He's family, that is what family is supposed to do. It's what decent family is supposed to do. Blood or not blood.

There was a lot of drama involving my take over as his power of attorney, a lot of stress, and a lot of tears. But, I suppose none of that actually matters. The gist of it is, he wasn't being taken care of - and he's dying. They say he has lung cancer, Stage 4. But they can't really confirm that because the once strapping and strong mountain-man refuses to allow them to get a tissue sample for such things. He watched his wife of forty-something years go through the cancer treatments and she withered away to nothing as she died. And he refuses to get treatment because he blames the doctors for her death.

His step-children were attempting to put him in a nursing home and sell his house from under him. They had even managed to take over his finances, and kept him going on $75 cash a month, and one of them went shopping for him. But there was hardly anything in his fridge or cupboards when I got here. But he is still sharp of mind, and he see's the manipulation going on around him. He wants to die in his chair, in his house that he worked all his life for, on top of his mountain - in peace. So he asked for help. And that is when I knew something was wrong.

What he doesn't understand anymore as his mind degrades is why he's in so much pain. The cancer has spread from his lungs, to his lymph-nodes, to his bones. His entire right side is riddled with excruciating pain. It's so bad that I've had to hide the gun. Morphine really doesn't seem to help him. I can't get him to drink either when he's in pain, so I know he's dehydrated. But arguing with a stubborn old man who grew up in the 40's is nearly impossible.

I've had insomnia. I've traveled for days on end, I have exhausted myself to the point of hallucination before. But I have never been this tired. And it's only been a week. Up and down all night long, every couple of hours, hearing his cries of pain. Knowing there's nothing I can do to relieve it. I get up because I refuse to let him suffer alone. Because that's not what anyone would want, ever. No body should ever suffer alone. Two hours at a time of rest at night, during the day I am trying to get his affairs in order before he gives up on life. I feel like I am constantly pushing a giant boulder uphill.

The worst is when I have to ask him the hard questions and he talks strongly but I can hear the tears in his voice, see them welling up in his eyes. My grandfather with his gnarled, arthritis stricken hands, who once used to sing on stage in a band way back in the 60's, with his stories of battles with mafia hit-men and the Depression and WWII... the once fearless man is scared. And he knows he's dying. He talks about it all the time. Who he wants to have what when he's gone. At least he still has a clear mind during the day when the pain isn't so bad.

And the pain. Its enough to drive me crazy. He's on so many prescriptions that it makes him vomit every time he eats. Trying to get nourishment in him is a constant uphill battle. Luckily he tries to make it easy on me by eating as much as he can. Usually he vomits it up. Up hill. Up hill. The pain makes him mad and frustrated. He cries and screams and curses. Up hill. Up hill. All we can do is dredge on isn't it?