Unfair

Sometimes when the children were babies I would anxiously watch them in their quiet slumber. I would meditate on the up and down that happens in those hours making sure that each breath was a fruitful effort and all was well in their sleeping baby minds. It never ceases to amaze me how our bodies know what to do. We are born and there we are, out of the womb, crying and breathing, sucking and reaching, clinging to life and to each other. In youth I am witness to the miracle of life and of growth. In old age I am witness to the slowing and breaking down of all that once was.
Three weeks ago, Grampy was at Sadie's basketball game. He was intent on watching the game, checking the score and making sure Sadie knew what position she was playing. We went out to Friendly's and ate food and talked about sports and the weather and politics whatever else to pass the time.
Today he is in the ICU at Beth Isreal hospital and he is clinging to life. He has a tube down his throat to keep himself breathing while they try and get rid of his infection and get his heart rate down and try and just get him stable enough to undergo treatment for colon cancer. I feel like I am in a dream.
Gary and I sat with him for several hours today. We talked a little to him but he became so agitated that we had to stop and finally they gave him sedation. He can't talk to us because of that tube and there is still so much I want him to tell me. How can it be possible that one moment you are with someone not even aware of the moment and then it can be gone, just a fleeting memory?
So we sat. I watched as he breathed in and out. I cheered inside for all those breaths and prayed and meditated for the ones that followed. Could this be the last time I see him?
Because I don't really want it to be.
I really don't.
I also don't want to tell my children their Grandfather died.
My father in law kept telling me that this was not fair and I see his point.
But on the other hand, it is what it is, old age, poor health, expected outcomes.
Then I think about the other Grandfather, the one I spent last night with telling old stories about the West Gloucester neighborhood and "Bunsy" down on the wharf. I listened to him tell me about how his mother died when he was 11 on that very day. I thought that was sad, he thought that was life.
He never tells me it is unfair that he has a life threatening illness, that he can no longer chase the kids.
I think it is unfair.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and about it, I am so mad.
Sometimes when I come in from an overnight shift in the middle of the night I look up at his window and see him standing there looking out in to the darkness, in to the trees that sheltered him as a child. I tell those trees to keep John here for just one more day.
And then I secretly wish that those days spread out before us like a mighty forest, lush and green, growing and thriving, breathing life in to all of us, this family.