Funeral

It was one month ago today that my grandpa entered the hospital. Last week, I mentioned in my blog that he was still alive, even though he had declined. A few hours later, my mom sent out a group email saying that the nurse said he was actively dying. I had planned to visit him around 6:00 that evening. But at about 4:00, my mom called and said he had gone.

I wasn't surprised. And honestly, I felt more relieved than I felt sad. Since I had visited almost every day, I had watched him decline both physically and cognitively over the last few weeks. It was no life for him to be sitting in a chair all day and have people take care of his physical needs.

But even before he got sick, his quality of life was not good.

In 2014, my grandparents moved to Centerville to a smaller, one-level condo, because they knew they were getting older. But at that time, they were still relatively healthy, even though Grandpa had hearing aids and didn't have great hearing. They had tickets to CenterPoint Theatre and would always take a family guest to dinner and a show. Grandpa couldn't hear very well, but he still enjoyed attending. My grandparents would attend water aerobics classes, and Grandpa liked to walk on the track at the rec center. They still made long road trips. They hosted family gatherings at their condo.

When they moved to Centerville, it meant I got to see them more often, for which I am grateful. A few years ago, I visited and recorded myself asking them questions for FamilySearch, and I'm glad I got that experience.

In more recent years, I have wondered, "Should I go pick Grandpa's brain while he's still with us?" But I didn't feel a need to, because I had already done so. Additionally, since he was so hard of hearing, it was difficult to have any meaningful conversation with him. If we spoke loudly and clearly, we could get him to understand us, but it usually took a few tries. You couldn't have a back-and-forth discussion.

His eyesight went on a roller coaster in later years. As recently as November 2021, he saw well enough to drive us to a family baptism. (I wasn't happy about that, since he never was a great driver.) Two years ago, I made a blog post about my blurry vision after PRK surgery. He made a Facebook comment that said, "Good job! I understand blurry more than most people ." I think that was one of the last times he was able to leave a comment before he lost his sight for good. He had his bad eye removed last Halloween night, and I still held out hope that his other eye would get better one day. But it didn't.

In March and April last year, they moved in with my sister, Susanne, as their health continued to decline. Most of the time, he would spend time in their family room and bedroom listening to movies and books. He would make slow, precarious walks to the dining room for meals, where he loved feeding their new dog, Bear. Actually, I don't think he ever got to see Bear. Right after they moved in, we had Easter dinner, and I made hot cross buns. He didn't know what was on his plate, and he made a noise of delight when he ate the bun, since he didn't know what to expect. My niece, Allie, helped him get to church weekly, and my mom would take him to doctor appointments. Major props to Susanne and Allie for becoming unpaid caretakers in the last year.

We have weekly family Zoom calls, and we never knew what he could understand. Sometimes he would surprise us with the things he did understand. One time he expressed his approval that a family enemy was in the hospital.

Anyway, all of this is to explain why I'm not more sad about his death. We will miss him, but in so many ways we had already lost him.

I spent that Sunday evening at their house. There was a CNA named Jason who had helped him while he was on hospice, and Grandpa told Jason should quit smoking, since Grandpa had also quit smoking. Jason stopped by that evening to give Grandma flowers and said he had quit smoking because of Grandpa. My sister's neighbors generously provided us with dinner. The men from the mortuary respectfully moved his body out on a gurney with an American flag cover, since he had been in the Air Force.

On Monday evening, my mom asked me to come over to help them write the obituary. I honestly would have been a little annoyed if they hadn't asked me to help just a little bit, since I'm the only person in the family who works with words for a living, and I'm the only one who has a history degree. They told me what elements they wanted in the obituary, so I whipped it up, and they were surprised with how quickly I wrote it.

Two hours after he died, Crumbl announced their weekly lineup, and it really seemed like the universe knew what was going on. Their first flavor was coconut cream pie, one of his all-time favorite desserts and one of the few things he ate during his final weeks. And their second flavor was chocolate milkshake—he used to make milkshakes for us, especially in their Holladay house. I had to get and share these cookies in his honor, even though they weren't seasonal, because it was a perfect accidental tribute.

Friday evening was the first viewing. My mom's sweet friend had set up this display table of his pictures and favorite things. 

There were scrapbooks of his pictures and journals. As I looked at pictures, I found I really didn't care about pictures of things and places, only pictures of people. It makes me reconsider the kinds of things I take pictures of. Of course, I think it's appropriate for me to take pictures for my blog, but pictures without people aren't very valuable for posterity. There was a picture of a ward roadshow with men in drag from the '70s or '80s. 

As I looked at all his journal entries, I recognized his handwriting from all the birthday checks he wrote for us. Friday night, my mom asked me to retrieve a notebook of correspondence, and it was fun to see letters between him and my mom and her siblings, such as this charming one to the cat:

Saturday we had another viewing, and then we had the funeral. My sports-nut cousin Peter talked about golfing and going to football games with Grandpa, activities that were less interesting (or uninteresting 🙋‍♂️) for the rest of us. My nonreligious uncle, Paul, explained that Grandpa lived the teachings of the Bible and Book of Mormon, specifically the golden rule and Moroni 7's treatise on charity. And my mom talked about Grandpa's love for his wife.

We went to the cemetery for a military salute and grave dedication. Then we returned to my sister's/Grandma's house for sack lunches from the Relief Society and an ice cream bar in honor of Grandpa's sweet tooth. (They had an ice cream parlor in their Holladay house, which he generously shared with the family and with ward members when he was bishop.)

It is never easy to lose someone. But I am so glad he is no longer blind and deaf.