On warm Saturday and Sundays, I curled up on Grandpa’s lap and, eventually fell asleep, while Grandpa watched the Cleveland Indians play; those are my favorite memories I have of my grandpa. It was normal for me to walk into my grandparents’ house and witness my grandpa holding up a gingerbread colored, scruffy, stuffed dog while goofily asking, “How are you today?”

“You’re silly, Grandpa. You’re silly,” I giggled and smiled with a toothy grin as I ran away with the scruffy dog.
As I grew older, those instances began to dissipate. Instead of sitting on my grandpa’s lap, I would sit on the couch, and instead of grabbing the stuffed dog from him, I would chuckle and shake my ten-year-old head, but in February 2009, the playful occasions came to a halt.

At the beginning of January during the same year, I visited my grandparents. It was a normal visit, nothing out of the ordinary. He sat in his red leather chair sleeping with a scratchy, red and blue Cleveland Indians blanket on his lap while baseball played on the television. His face appeared peaceful, as it usually is when people sleep. Before I left, I asked my grandma, “Can you tell Grandpa I love him when he wakes up? I’m going home.”

“Of course,” she replied. I thanked her and left. I didn’t know that would be the final time I saw my grandpa.
A couple days later, Grandpa went to Toledo for a doctor’s visit to check his heart. It was intended to be a normal visit, but they found that he had liver cancer; and his lungs and kidneys were shutting down. He was sick—very sick. They admitted him to the hospital, and the doctors began working to save his life.

My family and I visited the cream white hospital numerous times in the next week. We went every day after school and spent our weekend there, too. My brother, sister, and I unwillingly sat in the waiting rooms as the adults rotated watching us. Because Grandpa became sick around the same time swine flu was in full swing, children were not permitted to enter patient rooms since eighteen was the age requirement, and I was only 11, my siblings younger. I waited and stared at the shiny, marshmallow-colored walls for hours and poked pointed lavender plants. The adults never told us anything, but I think they knew he was dying and wouldn’t tell us. As I sat on the stiff hospital couches, I could only think, I hate being there.

A few days later when I hopped off the huge yellow school bus, my aunt sat in the driveway of my house and told my siblings and me that we would spend the next few hours with her. Usually, my mom arrived home the same time we did, so I became suspicious. At around nine, my parents picked us up from my aunt’s house, and they stayed extremely quiet on the way home—I knew something was wrong. I had only one thought in my head: They are going to tell us Grandpa died.

We returned home, and my mom set us down on our soft caramel couch as she sat on the coffee table. My parents’ somber faces confirmed what I already thought. “Your grandpa died earlier today,” my mom whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I could only stare at her; I didn’t know what to do. After his death finally processed through my head, I cried. I cried some more. Tears dripped down my face and formed streaks as my face turned red. Mom then suggested, “Go hug your dad.”

Dad looked sad. He didn’t talk. He didn’t look at us either, but all three of us, my brother, sister, and I, crawled up on his lap and cried until it seemed a river formed beneath our feet. Everybody cried, but not my dad. Dad never cried.

The day of Grandpa’s funeral I witnessed a first: my grandma crying. I couldn’t stay in the room with his dark brown casket because it made me cry too much, so I stayed in another room and colored blank Cinderella coloring pages to escape the sadness until my mom made me go in the same room with the casket. We put a few of my grandpa’s favorite belongings with him: crosswords puzzles, Pepsi, and little semi-trucks. As the funeral started, I had somehow managed to not cry during the whole service, until they began playing Grandpa’s favorite songs. I sat on my grandma’s lap, so we could embrace each other tightly and sob together. Soon after, the funeral ended.

The next few days we spent with my grandma. Every time we drove to her house, it felt strange to not have Grandpa there. Sometimes, it still feels weird not seeing his smiling face as I walk through the turquoise door. Every time I visit Grandma, I wish Grandpa would be there, handing me the scruffy, stuffed dog and giving me a warm ginormous hug while baseball plays on the television.