My Grandfather just died a bit less than an hour ago. He was 96, and he died of lymphoma. When he was in his eighties, he said he wanted to lived to 100, so that he would get a letter from the Queen. He was in pretty good health for someone so old, although the last few years have been a bit of a downhill slope. He was only diagnosed six weeks ago.
I'm glad I got to see him in hospital yesterday. At first, he didn't know who I was, and asked me where Michelle was. (wife of one of my cousins). My mom and I just played along. But he did recognise me before I left. I cried a little bit seeing him like that. I don't think I will cry at the funeral since I will be unable to get past the religious aspect of it.
Grandpa always liked me because I was the only grandson bearing his last name. Now that I'm back in my parents' house living with my sister, I'm sleeping on a bed he bought for me when I was young supposedly because my middle name was his first, but I always knew it was because I shared his last name. I was occasionally reminded that I was the only ____ grandson. Good thing he never learned that I separated from my wife, don't want children, don't want to be a grandson.
Another time I'll have to write about the position of growing up the only boy out of three kids. (My dad was the only boy out of six children)
I was going to write about something else, but this post is all about my Grandpa.