Yesterday I forgot what I meant to write about. I had went into work on Sunday, and I wanted to write about seeing Grandpa again.

Not really Grandpa, of course. But some elderly man who looked and acted like Grandpa did the Saturday after his turn for the worse. I didn’t cry, but there were so many strange emotions. The most unexpected situation was when the PT introduced me to him. He slowly turned his head toward me and said in the same half-whispering half-gasping speech Grandpa had used on Saturday, “Hi, TT.”

But he said it with a joke or a smile in his voice, as though he knew me, recognized me, liked me. I felt the warmth of his greeting spread through me and the smile leap on my face, but inside I was thinking “He sounds exactly like Grandpa. Exactly like Grandpa. I don’t know him; he doesn’t know me. Why does he sound so much like Grandpa? How can he sound so much like Grandpa? It’s like he’s always known me and glad to see me. It’s like he is Grandpa, but he isn’t Grandpa.”

He was in Oncology, so I guess he was dying of cancer. He didn’t seem agitated. . .but it was wrong, all wrong. When Grandpa looked like this, he had people he loved, his family, sitting around him, talking and laughing. Here it was still, too still. No one was there. He was alone. No one sang him songs or squeezed his feet. The people who saw to his needs were strangers, only doing what they were paid to do. (read the rest at Cloudy Day Writing)