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SPEAK
Your average 80-year-old might sit inside
to avoid heat stroke during the Oklahoma
summertime, but not my grandpa. Papa could
be found drenched in sweat, mowing his lawn
in a straw hat, khaki shorts and a short-sleeved
collared shirt. He had a full head of hair and
bright blue eyes. Papa played tennis every
day of his life and his small yet muscular frame
showed it. He was always full of life; he had a
hot temper and a good sense of humor. My
brothers and I spent much of our childhood at
my grandparents house, and those days are by
far some of my fondest memories.
My grandpa was a man of routine. He woke
up at 6 a.m. everyday to get the paper. Dressed
in his pajamas and leather house slippers,
he al ways ate cornfl akes and a banana
for breakfast. He would cheerfully ask my
brothers and me, Did you make straight As at
school today? Sometimes the question alone
motivated me to study harder. Papa was always
on time, whether he was taking my brothers
and me to sports practices or paying bills. He
was also a worrywart. He never pulled out of
the driveway without reminding everyone to
wear a seat belt, and he always carried spare
change, a pocket knife and a handkerchief with
him, just in case. Papa was the most reliable
person in my family.
He suffered his frst of several minor strokes
during Christmas of 2000. His brain never fully
recovered from the damage of each stroke, and
his memory noticeably declined.
He was diagnosed with Alzheimers disease
when I was in sixth grade. Papas memory
continuously worsened. He stopped being able
to sleep through the night, and he often became
disoriented and fell. My grandma couldnt take
care of him without compromising her own
Fondest memories: Caroline Kraft sits on her grandpas lap as a child. Te loss of her Papa has left a
void in her life but her memories of him and his infuence are still present today.
Contributed photo
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one jayplay writer remembers her
grandpa and his positive influence
LOVE
OUTLASTS
A LIFETIME
health, so after two years, my family placed him
in a nursing home.
Visiting my grandpa in the nursing home
was difficult for me. I will never forget the
confused look on his face whenever he forgot
what he was saying mid-sentence. Sometimes
he would become angry with himself and he
would tense his hands, squint and let out a
deep sigh. I wanted him to know it was OK that
he couldnt remember. He would ask me the
same questions over and over again during our
visits. I tried to answer each time with the same
enthusiasm.
Despite the repetition, my visits with Papa
were never boring. Papa was feisty. He often
had something to say about the nurses once
they left the room. Have you ever seen a butt
that big? hed ask me, his eyebrows scrunched
together in wonder. As irreverent as those
comments were, I couldnt help but smile.
Papa also kept his hot temper. One time
he had a roommate with a bad memory and
incontinence who wouldnt stay on his own
side of the room. Papa would tell my family
how much he hated that son of a bitch, and
we werent surprised when Papa gave his
roommate a black eye for rummaging through
his stuff.
Eventually, Papas memories regressed to
his life in the 50s and 60s. He would tell me
how excited he was to go back to his home
in Oklahoma City, a house I had never known.
He fought in World War II all over again in his
dreams. He would yell and fight the sheets in
his sleep, reliving the traumatic memories that
forever changed him.
When Papa was 89, he fell at his nursing
home and suffered a hematoma, a l i fe-
threatening bruise, on his brain. He had to have
emergency surgery to remove the excess blood
between his brain and his skull. Papa fought
to recover for the next three weeks, but more
complications arose, and my family started
preparing for the worst.
My mom told me to visit him alone so I could
say goodbye. It was the hardest thing Ive ever
done. I walked into his room, flled with beeping
machines and monitors. He was wearing an
oxygen mask, and he had a tube down his
throat. Papa was thin and frail, far from the days
that he could chase me down the hall and throw
me over his shoulder. His eyes were barely
open, and he couldnt speak. I just held his hand
gently and tried to ignore the knot of emotions
throbbing at the back of my throat. Papa had
forgotten many names by that time, but before I
left, he managed to say, I love you, Caroline. I
told him, I love you, too, determined not to cry
in front of him.
The night my grandpa died, my parents
insisted that I go home early because I needed
sleep for school, but I refused to leave. Even
though they said that Papa probably had
another day left, an overwhelming eerie feeling
wouldnt let me walk away.
The room was dark. My uncles, aunts, mom,
brothers and I were standing around his bed.
My grandma was holding onto Papas hand as
if she could keep him from leaving. The nurses
had already shut off the monitors. The only
sound in the room was the compression of his
oxygen tank. I watched his face. His eyes were
closed and his mouth hung partially open, as
if he was too tired to bring his lips together.
In an instant, his face lost its warm glow, and
everyone knew his struggle was over. My
grandma started weeping. Everyone else
began comforting each other. I imagined his
soul foating above all of us and slipping out the
window into the night sky.
I was too shocked to cry. My emotions
couldnt register what I had witnessed. I drove
home feeling separated from reality. I went to
school the next day and told my friends about
Papas death in a matter-of-fact way. I couldnt
understand why I didnt feel miserable. I
thought the frst day after a loss would be the
hardest, but I was wrong.
My first tears came at Papas funeral, and
four years later, I am still mourning his death. I
am grateful that he had a long life, but it doesnt
make me miss him less. I have learned that the
pain of loss reappears in unexpected moments.
During my high school graduation, I wished that
I could hear Papa cheering for me in the crowd
like he did for my brothers.
Even now, there are moments I feel like I
really need his support. Time cannot fll the void
that death leaves behind, but I know that Papa
is still alive in my memories, and his positive
infuence on my life is permanent.
// CAROLINE KRAFT
// CAROLINE KRAFT
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PHOTO BY Katie Morris
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