"Flights of angels sing"

So my grandfather finally succumbed to the Alzheimer's that had slowly and cruelly robbed him of who he was over the last ten years.

These last few years have been hard on my whole extended family. The "Paps" I grew up with was gone, saving a few fleeting moments, echoes of his past. About three years ago he basically lost the ability to communicate what was on his mind. No-one can even know if they were lucid thoughts, he would simply stutter in an agonizing “deeb-deeb-deeb” until he grew tired of doing that.

Every time I would see this I would rage inwardly “FUCK YOU, YOU GOD DAMNED DISEASE!! JUST KILL HIM, LIKE YOU INTEND TO, DON’T KEEP HOLLOWING HIM OUT INTO THE EMPTY SHELL HE IS BECOMING!”
And then I would rage at god, “You cruel bastard, you call yourself merciful? Fuck you too; if you have any power at all you would end this!”.

It was difficult to watch the gentle “man’s man” I loved be lost. We used to lay on the floor together “spooned”, watching TV and singing the popular songs of his youth, ”You are my sunshine!”, Toot, Toot, Tootsie, Goodbye” and other lesser known songs. I am probably one of the few people my age that can just break out and sing those songs in their entirety. We used to wrestle on that floor, with him grabbing me in an inescapable scissor hold that would squash my stomach like a vice. That would result in my pounding on him with my fist with all my might, only to be met with playfully disingenuous toying “Oh, Ew, Ouch, Oh, that hurts”.

But for all his manliness, he was a softy. I never heard him raise his voice; he never spanked me, even when I deserved it. He loved animals and every pet they ever had was a stray that somehow found its way to their house or just “arrived” and decided they were home. They were not my "Mamaw’s" pets really, they were his, laying beside him, sitting on his lap, following him on his walks. One of the cats would even go for the morning walk with him after he had retired.

Since our moving back to Texas I had only visited him a handful of times and his usual reaction was either indifference to the strange hairy man in his room or a confused look and gibberish attempts at speaking. But about nine months ago something different occurred, this time I walked into his nursing home room and said “hey Paps!” as was my usual greeting and for one split second there was a look of clarity & recognition on his face as he perfectly articulated “Hey!” as was his usual response for my whole life when he was lucid. Then just as quickly, the confusion rushed back in and his eyes dimmed. I knew at that moment, that was the last time he would ever know me and I told him I loved him and said goodbye. I visited a few times more, but I could hardly bring myself to do so. My Paps was gone, living and breathing though he was, the man behind the veil of flesh had departed.

Sometimes my mother or sister would think they saw glimpses of his returning to visit as it were, but I would privately wrestle with their observations. I had worked in nursing homes for a few years; I had watched this disease plunder and kill more often than I cared to remember. Was what they saw wishful thinking or had he managed for a brief moment to circumvent the prison his mind was in? He still couldn't communicate with them, so my mind wrestled with what I believed and what they did.

Then the call came, at the same time cruel and relieving, “He is at the end, the Dr. says anyone that has unfinished business or needs to say "Goodbye" should come soon.” I wrestled with the decision, I had no unfinished business, and I had said “Goodbye”. So if not for me and not for him, what about for them? For my grandmother that had sat everyday with him for the last 5 years in the nursing home, or my mother, or my sister?

I didn’t want to see him like that, I didn’t know if I could bear showing up just as the final crisis came and seeing and feeling the crushing collective grief of those I loved. I had to make a decision. I decided I would not go for one last visit. It was selfish, but I think I can live with my selfishness in this circumstance better than I could have the alternative.

And so we buried him yesterday, the funeral was satisfactory, functional, but not overly sentimental in the least. Some may have wished for a more personal touch, but I for one was glad not to be torn by the emotional memories of others. I had a lifetime of them floating through my mind as the minister prayed both for his soul and those of us grieving his loss. My brother, sons, cousin, nephew, and I served as his pallbearers, his honor guard, the last members of his blood to have any contact with his remains, even if it was through a wooden box.

Some of my family felt his extraordinarily long battle with death was his way of “Raging against the dying of the light” and prefer to associate that Dylan Thomas poem with him, but I am not so sure.

He was a gentle man, I prefer Shakespeare's Hamlet:

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest”

REB