Pardon the cliché. Who knows, this might become a blog about many things, but right now it’s going to be about helping my grandfather at the end of his life. I was always the one who got on the phone, the one who filled out the forms, the one who cleared up the questionable charges on bills.  Many kids translate for their parents; my grandparents spoke perfectly flat, Chicago-accented English, but my services were still required. It’s so simple, it hardly requires an explanation: when you’re raised by old people, you see that they’re tired. They’ve had it. “Here, you do it.” You take on the role of mouthpiece gladly. There is also the tendency on the part of seriously working class parents to let their better educated offspring kind of… take over dealing with officialdom. So you learn how to have that particular voice, how to walk into someone’s office with purpose, how to look The Man in the face and state your business. So after about twenty years of having this role, I’m prepared–sort of. This is an enormous thing. I’m managing all aspects of a life.  I have power of attorney. I’m speaking for him, signing my name to represent his interests. I’m the walking and talking and able him now.  I manage his money and am trying to do this wisely, despite the fact that I’ve never been particularly good at managing my own money. I am navigating the system as him, applying for all the funding and benefits I can get my hands on. I now know the limits of Medicare, what Medicaid offers, and what the VA health system can do for him–and thankfully, it can do a lot. I know every aspect of his daily routine, every health concern and medication, every pain. I know what he can eat and what he can’t, and what he really wants to eat, and I am the one who orders it or shops for it and instructs his aides how to feed it to him. I know what he’s afraid of and what he’s okay with. I have to hold my head for a moment after I finish writing this paragraph.

All the things that are involved in helping someone die– all the phone calls and meetings with all the new people–doctors, aides, therapists, bureaucrats–who must now come in and out of my grandfather’s life on a daily basis, all the sorting out of forms and receipts and stacking the appropriate papers into little piles, all the appointments scheduled and written on my calendar– all of this keeps me very busy, keeps my mind from lingering on the fact that soon he won’t be here anymore. Lately I’ve been so consumed with getting everything in its right place that I have to stop myself from running around their apartment and make sure I sit down and just look at him and talk to him, even on the days he doesn’t seem terribly into talking. He had a fall, and then a stroke and, at 94, it has weakened him tremendously. But he has all his marbles (to borrow one of my grandparents’ phrases) and is always happy I’m there. Even though some days his voice is very weak, he still opens his eyes wide when he sees me. I tell him what’s new, and then I ask him a lot of questions, giving him a lot to answer “yes” or “no” to, as he’s always been very succinct, and we have our conversations.

I feel bad that he can’t walk. He was walking in September. Walking ended in October. How could it be so final? He wants to get up, to go out every day like he has his entire life–all the way up to that miserable day in October. I know he’s bored. He can understand me, and I see him thinking, but his speech was affected and you can tell it takes quite a bit of effort for him to say a lot of words. I am especially sad about his being bored. He doesn’t want to watch television, and yet all he can do is watch television. He’d like to fix things again, and make things, but that’s over. How can I make him young again? How can I give him more years? These are the crazed thoughts I have when I’m the most upset. It’s no good to ask these questions, so I’ll knock it off.