When the end arrives...

...I'm not sure I'll be ready. After seven years of staring inevitability in the face, I'm still not prepared. Last night I sat in his latest hospital room, which is much like all the others, watching drops of blood plop plop plop into his veins. Watching as the latest attempt to flush sickness out plop plop plopped in vain.

His skin sags off of his bones. His head itches and flakes from the last round of chemotherapy he finished not too long ago. Or is it from the last bout of radiation to the head, the round attacking the four tumors in his brain? Purple bruises scatter themselves across his hands, elbows, arms, reckless marks of stabbings and pokings and needlings he's put up with for far too long. One of his legs is so thin you can see all of the bones and joints in detail. The other one bulges violently, angrily, from the thigh.

Metastasized, they said. In the soft tissue, they said. No more procedures, no more tests, they said. Hospice, they said.

Home, he said. I want to go home. I want to sit on my chair, in my living room, with my cat, in front of my big t.v, he said. I want to be able to go outside on a nice day, he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed, unable to take my eyes away from him and the last of the dripping blood. I had a baseball in my throat, and I blinked back tears more than once. I've known this was coming for a long time. I've been back and forth to different hospitals and nursing homes for years. I've driven him to New Haven for special testing, to DeQuatro in Manchester for various treatments and updates. I've heard doctor after specialist after nurse after doctor give reports and updates and diagnoses. I've read pamphlets and seen specials. I've heard the word cancer my whole life and always known what that meant.

But none of that could soften the blow. None of that prepared me to hear those words. None of that prepared me to watch as the last units of healthy blood dripped into my grandfather's ravaged body. I stared, willing time to slow down, unwilling to let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

Tonight he was fast asleep. There were no units of blood dripping. I held onto his hand for dear life. My hand held on tight; his trembled and lurched. He didn't wake up, and I wouldn't let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

We're nearing the end, and I know I should be prepared. But I don't know how.