My Grandfather is back in the hospital. He has been sick on and off since Christmas. I went to see him today, and during the conversation he looked at me and said:
"Kara, I'm ready to go."
I said back, "I'll take you back to your room."
He said, "No, I've got a plot between here and Jacksonville, and I'm ready to go."
He was talking about being okay with dying and with being tired of living, to me, his youngest (and most partial to) "grandbaby". Part of me was glad to have the conversation, because it confirmed to me that he is a Christian and that he knows he is going to heaven. And I'm sure he wanted to tell me because he knows I'm a hospice nurse, and because of that I'd listen. Which I did.
But, of course in the midst of this I had to make a joke because it was just getting too serious. At one point I looked at him and said, "Well, you'll be right by Dad and his parents, so I'll be by to see you often". He did laugh at that.
On the way home, I realized that this wasn't true, now. I haven't been to my dad's grave since the graveside service. That was almost 10 months ago. I mean to go, and sometimes I intend to. And then I don't. I get these grand plans of taking a picture of Daniel out there to the grave, or a can of his love-ed Grapette soda. And then I don't. Seeing his body at visitation made it real, made me realize it wasn't all a mistake. But visiting his grave . . . that makes it real in another way I guess, in a way I'm not ready to deal with. I miss my father every day - there's not day that goes by that I don't think about him. I don't know why I can't go to his grave. I know I will, one day. I'll probably need my sister and step-mother with me for support. I will go.
I'm not ready to go though.