remembering

It was three hundred sixty-eight days ago that he was ambulanced to the emergency room early one Friday night.

I remember where I was laying, on the floor of our dining room, when the texts from Dad started coming in.

I remember something like the ones about "dr. trying to tell us he could die from this" and "sepsis" -- those dreaded words.

I remember rushing up to the emergency room probably around midnight. 

I remember seeing Grandpa wrestle his oxygen mask that night.

I remember getting home and going to bed at 5 a.m., waking up at 7 something and dad's text that Grandpa's heart had stopped but been restarted.

I remember going back up to the hospital early that morning with siblings, deciding who should go and for whom this would be too much.

I remember the anger of my siblings when I stopped to get coffee on the way--they thought it so trivial and maybe it was but it was just trying to survive the day.

I remember hearing that Grandpa was almost gone on Saturday and rushing into the emergency room, and the receptionist asking if I was ok as I checked in and namebadged myself for the ICU.

I remember Aunt Lisa's birthday--the 17th--and how she narrowly avoided Grandpa's death and the day of her birth sharing territory.

I remember touring the waiting rooms and elevators of the hospital with the kids, trying to keep them entertained during long days.

I remember a late night trip to the ICU room with Aaron, taking supplies or something to dad, who slept there, on the floor, those five long and bitter nights.

I remember lunch on Sunday, standing in line with Aaron, so exhausted I felt I could barely stand.

I remember Wednesday morning, just sitting down to work, when Mom got the call and the last to see him rushed to the hospital and shared his dying moments.

I remember the agony of waiting for Grandma to arrive that morning--the frantic looks from the nurse who asked me if she was almost there. The phone call to Uncle Paul, determining how to get her inside fast enough. That last walk up to the ICU with Grandma just minutes--seconds practically--before he died.

And in all that commotion, I remember the man with the deep, soothing voice from England who read him Psalms as we said goodbye and Handel's Messiah gently floated through the room.

I remember the nurse coming in and telling us he was gone and realizing that death had come and the shock of realizing it was all over and maybe I had missed that exact moment.

I remember crying, and everyone in the ICU waiting room, and all going to lunch.

I remember the friends who came all the way from Georgia to see Grandpa but got there just a half hour or so too late. I remember them coming to lunch with us, and I remember the struggle of just wanting people to go away, just wanting to go sit in the car, grief gripping our bodies tangibly.

And I remember the day the flag was folded and we said goodbye to his casket with Josiah's words a final tribute.

We remember, Grandpa.