My father called this morning. He had that tone to his voice, the one that let me know something was wrong, a deep sigh and forced exhale before he said "Hey, did you ever hear back from your realtor?" and after some quick desultory conversation about the house sale negotiations he breaks the news.
"I heard from Mom last night. She has colon cancer."
My grandparents live in northern California. It's where they were born and raised and where they want to die. Everyone else has migrated to the east coast. My grandfather is in pretty dire straits healthwise, in fact every early morning or late night phone call from my parents has my heart sinking deep into my stomach. Now that his caregiver, my grandmother, is herself sick it has us scrambling to figure out how to make sure that they are cared for.
There is just something so inherently wrong about not being with them in the dusk of their lives. I should be able to be there to hold their hands, listen to them reminisce about their childhoods, my father's childhood, their loves and losses. I want to be there to make them lunches of their favorite foods and sneak them treats that they're not supposed to have but will make them remember some of their fondest experiences. Most of all, I want to be there to wish them well and have my arms around them when they step through that final doorway into their own private bliss.
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