Phone Calls in the Middle of the Night

When the phone rings after 11, I am always convinced that something awful has happened. Chalk it up to my "worst case scenario" outlook.

Typically, it is a drunk friend, or someone who doesn't understand the concept of time zones.

Tonight, the phone rang at 12:15, and it wasn't good news.

My grandfather, who has been in failing health for several years, has had another heart attack, and is not expected to live more than another day or so. His heart is failing, and now his kidneys are shutting down.

So here I am, 2000 miles away, while my last grandparent is dying in a hospital at home in San Diego.

I know that I am supposed to remember the happier times, and that I should be glad that his suffering is coming to an end, but I am still sitting here crying. I am always amazed at the fact that I can know something, intellectually, but my emotions run riot, in direct opposition to that knowledge.

My grandfather could always be counted on to take me to a baseball game, or the circus or to the store for an ice cream. I never left his house without him trying to slip me a little money, even after I had a job. He whistled incessantly, but he would take requests. He liked to drive a new Lincoln, and smoke cigars by the pool.

I love you, Gramps.