Grandpa

He sits alone most nights now. Conversations are held with himself, or newscasters, or the god that has always given him comfort. Settled into the creases of his recliner in the dim room with the news on, but turned down low, he works to understand the twists that life has thrown him. Vacillating between hope and resignation, between acceptance and grief, he falls back to that which has always gotten him through; clear factual comprehension, and a structured routine.
The facts are more upsetting than calming, with unkowns that are numerous and prickly. Doctors have said that she would die within days three times now. They have said that she is stable. They have said that her organs are slowly shutting down, that she will eventually slip into a coma and from there fade into death. No one can say when.
With this new reality, routines are hard to nail down. On Monday the house gets cleaned. How can he do that when he sits by her bed all day, feeding her, talking to her, or simply answering her when she wakes enough to call his name. She doesn't want to be alone, even in her sleep. Wednesday is grocery shopping day. What does he need to shop for? How many meals will be eaten at home in the coming week? It's impossible to say. What will happen as time continues to pass, and their children and grandchildren drift back to their home states, focusing more on their day to day lives than his? Is it selfish to ask for help? To have someone with her 24/7? It's been almost a month, and she hasn't been alone yet. Is it selfish to want her to stay here, even though it means discomfort for her? He's had 61 years with her. Is that enough? There are no good answers to any of the questions he wrestles with.
Sitting there with him on the few evenings I've had to give, we've gotten to talk like we never have before. He talks about politics with me because he likes to challenge my liberal beliefs. He talks about science, about the plutonium powered artificial heart he helped design, and what fields of science he would be involved with now if he could (protien based bio-chem, because that's how we'll cure cancer). I listen to his fears, and let him know that everything he is feeling is ok to feel. I listen to his stories and learn more and more about the people my grandparents are. I listen and wish desperately that I had started listening years ago. I listen to the words he has wound up inside as they unspool into the dim evening, and I'm listening
to love and heartbreak the whole time.