I’ve learned to add a buffer of about an hour when leaving my grandparent’s house. Once my bags are in the car, I know something will come up. Yesterday, as we said our goodbyes before heading back to Ottawa, my grandmother suddenly remembered she got a notification that someone had logged into her Google account. We took a look. It was my dad handling some financials for her. And then I had to go through my grandfather’s ties to see if there were any I wanted to take home.
I’ve never begrudged these last-minute tasks. I know that I’m just wanted for a little more time.
About a month ago, when I held my grandfather’s hand and replaced the damp towel on his forehead, I felt what they’ve always felt when I’m leaving. After three weeks in the hospital with pneumonia, weakened by months of cancer and chemo, his lung had collapsed. His heart was beating erratically and the ICU was full of noise.
I said what I wanted to say to him. He was there. He heard it. But his bags were packed. And as many hours as I’d spent in the ICU over those last few weeks, I wanted one more.
I can cherish now, memories of recovering passwords, fixing the WiFi, and refilling the soap dispenser under the sink that is a pain to reach. I have the ties and an old sweatshirt. And I know that I was loved for all of those hours of “one-more-things”.
