The day my grandmother died, my grandpa sat by her bedside, held her hand, and sobbed for hours. I don't know if he knew it was her final day, but he at least seemed to clearly understand how sick she was. This was surprising, given his dementia. But that day, he knew. He looked down at his wife of 67 years, tears spilling from his eyes, deep cries falling out of his mouth, and he looked like he was in painful agony. Like his world was ending. Like he may as well have been dying himself.
She looked at him with such tenderness, such gentleness, as if to say: Oh, I'm so sorry. As if she wasn't the one dying. As if, even in her death, all she wanted to do was comfort him.
It was the hardest thing I've ever watched.
But it also made me think, wish, hope and pray for this: I hope I grow old with someone I love. I hope we take care of each other and help each other and love each other to our dying day. I hope there's someone there for me when I'm using a walker or wheelchair, when I'm facing down the end.
I don't really know the meaning of life or what exactly it is we're meant to do on this earth, but I have to think that finding someone and loving him and growing old with him is really one of the few things that truly matters.
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