Well, I haven't posted here in a week, and it feels like it's been a month, honestly.
My grandfather (mom's dad) had a massive double stroke last Wednesday and died on Friday night at the hospital. It has been a very exhausting week.
I think I'm still in a bit of shock. My grandpa had been pretty healthy and perfectly independent. He moved in with my aunt six years ago, but other than that, he still drove, still did his own laundry, and at age 82, was still mentally as sharp as a tack.
No one is quite sure how or exactly when the strokes happened. He was alone at home, doing laundry. My uncle came home from work around 5 p.m. and thought my grandfather was sleeping, because he was in his chair in front of the TV, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his belly, eyes closed, head upright. So my uncle quietly tiptoed around him, trying not to disturb him.
About ten minutes later, my aunt got home from her job and tried to wake him. He didn't respond, and it was only then that she noticed his hands had turned blue.
They called 911 and he was admitted to the ER, where he had a CAT scan of his brain that showed the double stroke. I got to the hospital at about 8:30 that night. He was moved to a private room around midnight. My cousins and I stayed until 2 a.m. in his room, holding his hand and talking to him, even though he never regained consciousness.
The next morning, the doctor called to tell my mother that Grandpa's breathing had become agonal, which typically means that death is imminent. We rushed to the hospital again and stayed for several hours, but his condition neither improved or worsened, so we all went home to get some food and sleep.
We went back to the hospital around 6 p.m. Everyone but me left at 8 p.m. I spend a few hours alone with him, for which I am ever so grateful. I sat next to his bed, held his icy-cold hand (he had no circulation in his left arm), and told him not to be afraid, that we loved him and believed that he loved us too, and to do whatever he needed to do and that we'd all be okay.
I went to work on Friday morning and got a call from my mom around noon. He had developed a high fever -- 104 degrees -- and the doctors believed that he was bleeding into his brain. I left work and went straight to the hospital. His breathing was not nearly as labored as it had been, but his face was beet-red from his temperature. The stroke had affected his hypothalamus, which is the organ that regulates body temp.
By 6 p.m., his fever was above 106 degrees, and his breathing was down to about ten breaths per minute, which is half the normal respiration rate. We knew he would die that night. And he did, at exactly 11:15 p.m., while I held his hand and my mom and uncles surrounded him.
His death was extremely peaceful. We watched his heart rate on the monitor slowly descend until it flatlined and saw him take his last breath. I am so, so glad that I was there for it. I needed to see it. And my mother needed me. Everyone else left shortly afterwards, but my mother and I waited for the house physician to stop by his room to officially pronounce him dead.
The weekend was a flurry of activity: picking out his burial outfit, making the funeral arrangements, writing his obituary, picking out readings for the Mass, booking the restaurant for the luncheon following the burial, and getting the word out to the extended family about his death.
I still can't believe it.
In My Head
