Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

My last surviving grandparent stopped eating and drinking about four days ago.

I got the news that he was dying on Friday night, and booked a flight out first thing Saturday morning.

Everyone who could, dropped everything and came out to see him.  He was on oxygen, waxy and largely immobile except for the occasional spasm of a limb.  He seemed to be sleeping the entire time we were there, though his eyes occasionally half-opened and his face passed through different expressions from time to time.

We spent as much time with him as we could over the course of the weekend, catching up with each other in his presence.  As the spirit moved us, we stood at his bedside, held his hand, and spoke with him.  I told him who I was, told him we all loved him and would miss him, but that we were grateful for all he had done for us, and that we were really proud of him.  I told him how much I liked re-telling stories of his adventures in the Foreign Service.  I told him we were sad to say good-bye, but that we understood he'd had a full life and that we understood if it was his time to go.

I cried when my dad and brother spoke to him, trying to reach him and see if he was in there somewhere.  I cried in the airport.  I'm crying now.

It would be wonderful if he revived and rallied again, but I do not expect it.  Given that he has lost the will to live and is dying, I just wish we could all have stayed with him until the end.  (Only my cousin remains at this time, and she leaves tonight.)

So I am back in New York now, where everything is still off-kilter, and I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, the inevitable phone call or email that will let me know that this extraordinary man, the last link to my ancestors, is gone.