Picking up the pieces

If there's one thing I really remember about that night, it was the medical staff. My grandfather was a lifelong professor in the field of public health. He had worked with many of them in some capacity or another, and there was so much respect for him in that ICU. The nurses hugged us, and when we said we needed to go home and tell my grandmother, they assured us that they'd keep him right there so she could say her goodbyes.

We traveled home together, though we all three came in separate cars. When we arrived at the house, we each had one person to wake. My mom went to her sister, I went to my cousin, and my uncle knocked softly on Grandmommy's door. My cousin and I hugged each other and cried.

Gathered together, we piled back into my rented minivan. My uncle drove. He's always been good under pressure, and everyone was thankful for it. The sun was just starting to come up as we made the final trip to the medical center.

When we arrived, the nurses took us back. They had rearranged Grumpus' shell, clearing away all the detritus of medicine and death. The NG tube was gone, as were all the wires and IV lines.

There were arrangements to be made, and we did so quickly, sitting with Grandmomy as she answered questions about the disposition of the love of her life. In less than two weeks they would have celebrated their 64th wedding anniversary.

As we were leaving, two young doctors came in to tell Grandmommy what a great man Grumpus had been. She thanked them kindly. They would be the first of many.