It is less than 48 hours before I am 40.
1/2 way to 80.
My grandfather is 87. He smoked for about 40 years of his life. He crawled across France and Checeslovakia on his stomach and earned the bronze star in WWII. He paced the floors with me when I was a newborn during the wee hours of the morning and came to every softball game I had when I was a teen. When I call him, he says "Now there is the sweetest voice I have EVER heard." When I was majorly hung over at the ripe old age of 16 on Easter Sunday, he refused to believe it. He thought his poor granddaughter was the victim of food poisoning at the drive-in instead.
Oh JOY! Why on earth would you want to continue to read this post?
Because this is a post about love and bravery and devotion and honor and love again.
He is the only real father figure I have ever known. He is everything I know about the masculine side of parenting and love and me.
He takes my breath away. And he is very near the end of his life.
Every hour, every day, I think about his final hours. I try to figure out when I'm going to see him next.
The issue is that he has been "on his last legs" for about 5 years now. He is a STRONG son of a bitch. He could go tomorrow. It could be another 5 years.
What the hell do I do?