A ship got attacked by pirates last week. Yay for pirates!!
Except that they were using grenade launchers and guns...
What ever happened to the good old days? With the swashbuckling and the swords and the Jolly Roger flying high and proud atop the mast?
Oh the good old days...


In other news, this weekend (i.e. Sunday) didn't affect me like I thought it would. I wasn't the happiest girl in the world, but I wasn't sobbing like I thought I would be. My mom was crying though, and so were some of my aunts and uncles. I'm happy that she cried. She was too strong during his funeral, too stoic. It's good that she can cry about it now.

I totally accept death. I know it's inevitable and I do not fear it for myself at all. But even though I don't fear death, it doesn't make it any more bearable or comforting when some one dies.

God, those last three days were the hardest. It started when he took a fall on Monday night. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday he was in his chair, the chair that he would die in. I remember going to school on Tuesday and barely getting through it. I don't remember if my friends knew or not. I don't remember anything that I did except getting into my father's suburban after robotics. He said that it would be a good idea to go see him, that he wasn't doing well, and that he didn't want the other kids to see him. Not yet. We arrived.
I thought he was already dead.
His face covered with a thin sheet of sweat, making him look feverish despite the pallid hue of his skin. His breath was raspy, coming out in slow wheezes. Every breath he took I thought would be his last. Upon seeing my grandfather, I burst into tears. Of course, my emotions weren't comforted at all by the music that was playing: a slow, foreboding, funeral march.

With the help of my aunts and uncles, I regained my composure. Enough of it, anyways, to eat and converse with the people there. Reluctantly, I left with my father. I had a faint notion of homework yet to be completed and school that had to be attended the next day.

The next two days of school crawled by. The each second like a minute, each minute like an hour, each hour like a year. Each day I would visit, cry some, eat and chat, and say goodbye for possibly the last time.

Friday, the day winter break started. I was driven home, eager to visit Papa. I walked in, set down my bag, and searched for my dad. He wasn't home. I went on the computer to occupy my time until he returned.
I heard the garage door open, then the back door. Footsteps heavy through the kitchen and dining room. The creak of the chair as he sat down by the window.
"He's gone."

The rest is history.

Black Valentine's Day.

And it shall be for as long as I live.

He is officially gone today. Into the earth with his body, next to my true grandmother. I promised myself I wouldn't cry. I then broke my promise again and again and again.

The Mass was really nice, and actually quite comforting. I held up well during that part. Then we went to the cemetery, where he was given a "war hero" burial. Danny played the taps. It was wonderful. Held up during that, too. But then, they asked that everyone take a rose and then leave their hand-print on the coffin. I didn't even bother to dry my tears. They kept coming.

On the bright side, I learned that I love my family. No matter how annoying they are, I love them. My extended family, especially. Wonderful people. Really amazing. Too bad we only get together for these kinds of occassions...

And now the "healing" process can begin...

His viewing was today. I got there, saw him in his casket, and burst into tears lasting about 30 minutes. I was fine for the next 5 and a half hours.
At about 6, the submarine guys that Grandpa was a part of sent him off. "Put down your oars, Captain". The bagpipes started to play and each one of them stood in front of his coffin and saluted him. This set me off. Started crying at 6:30, it's now 9:15 and I have just now stopped sobbing. I kid you not.

These bitter tears that I shed are selfish. Why couldn't he have spent more time with me? I want him back. Me. Myself. I'm not thinking of him when I really should be. I'm thinking about what I want, what I need. I'm not ready for him to go. Not ready to put him into the ground. I don't want him to go! But it's too late now, he's gone and there's nothing I can do to change it.

Death is the only thing that lasts forever.

I shall never see him again. Never hear him. Never smell him. Never touch him.
He thought I was so smart, too. He was so proud of me.

I will make him proud. I will live up to his expectations of me. I swear it, I will.

Tomorrow will be Hell.

By the way, a link to his obituary. I don't expect anyone to read the whole thing. But, you'll know what he looks like. And if you do read it, what a great guy he was.

http://obit.desmondfuneralhome.com/obit_display.cgi?id=189880&listing=Current

~Peace and Love to you all.

He was a corpse.
Eyes sunken into his head,
mouth slack-drool dripping down his chin.
And I'm there,
Waiting,
for an invisible puppeteer to jerk a string,
for someone to yell surprise.

I broke down into
Tears.
Shaking,
I held his hand.
Told him I love you.

Half-an-hour.
Watching for his last breath,
for when his soul will leave.
Listening to the rattle of air
leaving his phlegm-coated throat.

Eyes listless,
Lifeless.
Already dead.

I kissed his forehead.
Cold.
A glaze of sweat coats him.
It won't be long now.

I found out more about my grandpa today. He's losing his short-term memory. Example: He couldn't remember who helped him out of bed this morning, but he remembers everything that happened during his service in World War II.

He's getting really emotional too, I guess. He told my mom she smelled good and she said he was about to cry. So she tried to make a joke of it. "Better I smell good than just smell!"
He knows it's coming. How scary that must be. To know that soon you'll permanently be gone from all the people you love and care about. To know the grief you'll cause them. To know that they will suffer with your loss. To know your end is near.

We're all dying, when you think about it. Every minute we live is a minute closer to death. Once we enter this world, we begin to die, not to live. We're all going to die. And no one knows when.

I don't usually put two sad entries back-to-back. I'll try not to from now on. I can't make any promises though.

If you're sad, I'm truly sorry. Please forgive me. Sing "Hakuna Matata" and all will be well again. Or just watch Lion King, and then you can watch others sing.

My grandpa is not doing well. A couple days ago, he almost fell in the shower. My grandma heard him scream. He could barely get up the stairs last night to get to bed. Tonight, Grandma Jane is going to call my parents to help her get Grandpa to bed. They're going to get him a special bed to put downstairs and chair to help him get up and around. My mom called the woman that helped our family when my Grandma was dying. I heard her mention something about Hospice too.

I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. My heart feels compressed within my chest. I'm dizzy. I have been all day. I fear the end is coming for him soon. The illness that is cancer has spread through his body so quickly... he's fading. I can almost feel it. The sense of worry and foreboding in my house is so thick you can cut it with a knife. I don't know how I'm going to handle his passing.

I'm scared.