G.G.

During our travels to the midwest, my wife's grandfather (and my daughter's great grandfather) passed away at the age of 96. He'd lived independently until about a year ago and had continued to work until the day he injured his shoulder badly in a freak accident in his living room; that fall, sometime about 16 months ago, set into motion a long, slow process of decline that ended a long and glorious life. Floyd had survived long enough to enjoy eight grandchildren and about a dozen great grandchildren, most of whom -- the ones old enough to speak -- knew him as "G.G."

My daughter won't remember G.G., but she knows who he is. It's the strangest thing, of course, that she recognizes him now in pictures and can remember him from two weeks ago when we last saw him, coughing and swollen and barely conscious in an Illinois hospital, but she won't be able to keep those memories as long as my wife and I wish she could. As we expected, she was mildly freaked by the hospital experience; she knew something was wrong, but she obviously couldn't comprehend what I, at least, knew was about to happen to the only great grandparent who had the good fortune to meet her. After we left the hospital, she kept asking about G.G. and kept reminding us that "G.G. doesn't feel good" and that "G.G. has a bad cough."

She continued telling us about her great grandfather even after we received the news -- a few hours after we'd visited him for the last time -- that he'd passed away. For the next two days, she would casually and randomly mention him in conversation. She asked where he was, and she announced over and over that he didn't feel good. My wife and I decided we'd bring her to the viewing, not knowing how she'd interpret the sight of her great grandfather's body if, indeed, she happened to see it. As it turned out, she did catch a glimpse of him. She stopped and stared for a moment, then whispered, as I figured she would, that "G.G. is sleeping."

Yes, I said, G.G. is sleeping.

She added, very seriously, that "G.G.'s not coughing."

No, I told her, G.G is not coughing.

"G.G.," she concluded, "feels better."

I wasn't sure if she was right. I'm not religious, and I don't anticipate anything existing beyond death. But for her sake, and for G.G.'s, and for her two grandfathers -- one of whom died sixteen years before she was born -- I hoped she was.

Yes, I offered tentatively, G.G. feels better now.

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