Granddad Bass OriginalYou are probably familiar with the African proverb “it takes a village to raise a child,” popularized in America as the title of Hillary Clinton’s book in 1994. Over the years, it began to take a village to do most anything — yet a cliché stops being a cliché the moment our experience speaks to its meaning.

Recently life taught me it DOES take a village. Birth, growing up, survival, death – it all takes a village.

A few weeks ago, my 97 year-old grandfather fell for the last time doing things his way (let’s just say he insisted on standing and letting go of his walker). He broke his pelvis, collarbone, and elbow (again). While in the hospital, he developed internal bleeding and sepsis. By the time we arrived, his speech was unintelligible, but he could nod and shake his head to communicate. (The last words we understood were those when he saw my mom, greeting her one final time with his trademark, “Hey babe.”) All things considered, our last few days together were good ones. When he was awake, his eyes were bright. He laughed at a joke. But severe seizures had set in and it was time to make the decision.

I was astounded by the care and concern of each person we met – nurses, technicians, respiratory therapist, transport staff, hospital social worker, and internist. In their own ways, they gently urged the right thing for him, which was inpatient hospice and palliative care. In hospital, they were doing their jobs and treating symptoms – even doing a CT scan to try to determine the cause of his seizures. In hospice, he would receive pain medication to control the seizures and peacefully pass.

The hospice staff each were angels personified. I could have never imagined that such a place existed and that people devoted themselves to the delicate transition between life and death. I brought my grandmother to spend two afternoons with him, and she held his hand reliving their life of more than 77 years together. And then he slept.

Granddad’s experience sounds almost like the perfect way to go. Yet how many of us will be so fortunate? He was a cat with nine lives, and toward the end, was helped by my mother, my grandmother (who, even at 95, doted on him), the staff of a wonderful assisted living facility, rehab therapists, a part-time caregiver, and ultimately strangers – the staff at the hospital and hospice. I believe it is a tribute to him and all that he did for others in his lifetime that he lived so long and touched so many.

Today, we are fortunate that the village extends to the virtual world. If my grandfather had been born in 1966 instead of 1916, perhaps when he had his first heart attack at age 46, he would have told his family instead of keeping it a secret until his second one decades later.

In family lore, his “spell” was nerves, and the doctor advised him to find a hobby. In true dairy farmer fashion, he decided to fish. Never mind that he had no place to fish. He dug out not one, but two ponds on his 80-acre farm and stocked them with bass and bluegill. Some of my fondest memories are of fishing with my grandfather. It took until I was 28-years-old to finally catch a bass, and he was so proud of me. It was 6 pounds 10 ounces, rivaling the 8 pounder he hooked when I was small.

If his heart disease happened today, maybe he would go online to explore what to do to prevent future heart attacks. Or maybe, his mystery heart attack was a spontaneous coronary artery dissection, or SCAD, like mine. Today the technology exists to know the answer. In Pimento, Indiana, circa 1962, the doctor handed him unidentified prescription pills in a pocket-sized brown paper bag with instructions written by hand. Everyone did what “Doc” said, even though they weren’t exactly sure why. His advice to go fish, though, you can’t argue with that.

Granddad — your village misses you!

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