The tree had just been put up, the garland was starting to be strung along the stairwell, and the ornaments were beginning to be unpacked. People were scurrying around the open house, filling it with decorations. It was the day after Thanksgiving. Although there was no snow on the ground, Christmas was right around the corner. My mom invited our whole family over to help decorate the house. My grandpa and I were in charge of hanging the lights on the tree. I remember not wanting to, but my mom pushed me over to help. The lights were in a tangled mess, but we eventually untangled them and slowly made our way around the tree. I can’t remember what we talked about when we were hanging the lights, or if we even had a conversation at all. My grandpa was a quiet man. I was quiet as well. While we were hanging the lights, he became tired and hot. He removed his sweatshirt to reveal a thin white t-shirt. That is one of the few things I can remember about that day, what my grandpa wore.

As the decorating came to an end, my family members got ready to leave. As my grandparents said goodbye, there was a sad chill that ran through the now filled house. My eleven year old self was confused. Everyone was having such a good time a couple of minutes ago. My grandma came up to me and told me as soon as my grandpa was out of surgery, my brother and I could come sleep over. I then hugged them goodbye and watched them as they carefully walk down my porch.

That was the last time I ever saw my grandpa. He went into surgery the day after the party. The doctors told my family that although it was a heart procedure, everything should run smoothly. He would be out within two weeks.They lied.

My grandpa never left. He stayed there from the end of November to the end of April. He stayed there for five long months. I had the opportunity to visit my grandpa for five months, but I never went. I had the opportunity to say goodbye, to tell him that I loved him, but I didn't go. Five months, 21 weeks, 147 days. Not one of those days were used on my grandpa. They were all a waste.

As winter turned into spring, as the number of months that my grandpa stayed in the hospital became longer, I knew that it was not looking good for him, but I didn’t lose hope. As an eleven year old, I was extremely hopeful and not fully in tune to reality. I continued to pray every night in hope for my grandpa to recover. I wanted him to recover so badly; I wanted my family to become happy again. He was the key to our happiness; he was the one who held our family together. I could have went and told him that, but I didn’t. For five months I went back and forth wondering if I was ever going to see him again, and if I would have decided to just visit him then I could have stopped wondering. I could have said goodbye.

On a Thursday night in April, as my family was eating dinner, my mom mentioned my grandpa. She told my brother and I that he wasn’t doing well. She asked if we wanted to go see him. I immediately said no. My brother agreed with me. My mom never made us go; she knew that we were uncomfortable. She was on the fence about taking us and allowed us make the final decision. Since we were still young, she thought that we didn’t need to see my grandpa in the condition that he was in. She wanted us to have happy memories of him, but at the same time she wanted us to say goodbye. I made the final decision.
I did not go.
I had five months, 21 weeks, 147 days, but I was scared, selfish, and confused. I didn’t want to see him so sick; I wanted to keep the image of my strong, healthy grandpa in my mind.
The next day, right after school, my mom got a phone call. As she cautiously listened to the other end, her eyes went shut; her face wrinkled up. The bags under her eyes were obvious, along with the tears flowing down her cheeks. I knew what had happened even before she got off the phone. My stomach began to ache; I felt the pit in my stomach grow. I knew that my grandpa had left. It would never be the same. I began to cry. I cried for his lost, for my mother’s pain, and for the time that I would never get back.
The five long months ended.
I no longer had the opportunity to see my grandpa. He was gone.
I wish I would have said goodbye to him. The rest of my family was able to tell him how much they loved him; I should have took my chance. I wish I would have looked past the uncomfortableness and just gone. I realized that not only did my grandpa die, but so did our happiness in our family. There is always a quiet sadness when the family gets together. There is one seat left unfilled; the cutting of the turkey has been passed down. Looking back, I can say that the happiness was never fully restored, and I know that it never will be.
I wanted to keep a strong image of my grandpa in my mind, but what I didn’t realize then that I do now was that he was always strong. Especially, the five months in the hospital. He was a fighter; he didn’t want to give up. He fought for our family, especially for my grandma. He didn’t want to leave her. They were each other's everything. I am so grateful that he was my grandpa. I only regret not telling him that. If he were still alive, I would tell him how much I love him and how much I love our family that he created. I would tell him that I’ve never seen a man so loved before by his family. But I can’t say those things, he is gone. I had five months to tell him those things, but I chose not to go. I chose not to say goodbye. Now I can only hope that he knew how much I loved him, but as I know, sometimes hope just isn’t enough.