And then my children lost a grandfather

Dear Adeline and Crosby,

This is the hardest letter I’ve written to you. Sadly, I know it will not be the last of its kind. On August 23, your Papa (my father-in-law) passed away after a 9 day struggle with double pneumonia. He was only 57-years-old.

His death is a huge shock. And even though I helped your father transfer his ashes from a plain black box to an urn, even though I helped plan the funeral, even though I was in the room the moment he died, I still cannot believe he’s gone. The idea of never seeing him again…it seems impossible.

The last day you saw him was Sunday, August 12th. He and Grandma spent the day with you, Addy, playing at their house, sharing an ice cream cone at McDonalds and splashing in the water at Pike Lake. They dropped you off and he complained about a cold he hadn’t been able to shake. He held you, Crosby, as he always did when he came over, doing whatever it took to make you smile. And you always did. I remember his last hug, last kiss, the last time I would hear him say, “Love you,” like he always did when he said goodbye. I was busy with dinner and barely paused to reciprocate.

Two days later he was admitted to the ICU, his lungs only working at 25%. He spent 9 days hooked to a ventilator and attached to IVs of antibiotics. Nothing seemed to work. The doctors routinely explained that he was very, very sick, but we all held out hope. On the 23rd, doctors switched him to a different ventilator. His lung collapsed. They tried draining the fluid out of it, but it didn’t work. Your papa was surrounded by his son, wife, mother, brothers, a sister, a nephew, sister-in-law and daughter-in-law when he died.

Crosby, you are far too young to remember the 9 months you had with Papa, and I am heartbroken to say that few pictures exist of the two of you. But he held you all the time, delighted in watching you laugh, play, explore and grow and often took care of you. He was so looking forward to seeing your personality emerge and getting to know you like he knows your sister.

Adeline. You and your papa were two peas in a pod. He dotted on you endlessly and cherished every moment he had with you. He loved so many people, but you were at the center of his heart, serving as his greatest source of joy. He loved you like he loved everyone-with complete acceptance. While we explained to you that Papa got very, very sick, so sick that he died and we won’t be able to see him again, you don’t understand. But at 3-years-old, how could you? You ask about him daily, requesting we send him things to make him feel better or inquiring where he is. We’re encouraging you to talk about him and share your memories. So far, you remember that Papa tickled and chased you, shared ice cream cones with you McDonalds (he’d sit in the back seat with you and you’d pass the cone back and forth, Papa reminding you to catch the drips). He took you to Pike Lake to play or to the playground near our house. He basically did whatever you requested of him.

I have always believed that things happen for a reason, and, as your dad said at Papa’s funeral, “I am trying to find the lessons in his early passing,” but it’s a struggle to see beyond his absence right now. I keep finding regrets on my part, and I’ll admit that he was more tolerant of my quirks and flaws than I was of his, though I never let him see my occasional frustrations with him.

Your Papa was a good man with huge potential. Had he had the tools and knowledge to match his passion and charisma, he could have done amazing things. But then again, he did. He loved you and us so much. He said it every time he buckled you two into your car seats – “I love you so much.”

Last night, your dad, Grandma and I were talking, wondering if it would have been easier to accept his passing if he had been older. And while we believe it would be, we also realize his passing would’ve been so much harder on you two. While I wish you would have had more time with him and he with you, I am grateful that you have not been pained by this.

I believe Papa will always be with you, spectating your accomplishments and wishing he could protect you. And even though he is not here with us anymore, we will all keep him alive.

Love,

Mama

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