A web documentary by Stacy Zhou
A date at the park! What beautiful weather today.
Enjoying Grandpa's favorite spot:
the pond.
Grandma and Grandpa kayaking on the lake!
Whew, look at them go.
You can tell whose idea this was.
Grandpa's a conquerer
of many activities.
Lunch is served!
What's better than
barbeque, you ask?
Beer and barbeque!
Yeowch! Watch the spice.
Time for a selfie!
Looking good, Gramps.
Oh no... Grandpa is not feeling very good.
Let's see what the doctor has to say.
The biopsy results came back... it's stage 2 oral cancer.
Grandpa is worried, but decides to go through with
treatment to try and fight it.
Grandpa is still doing the things he loves.
Unfortunately, the cancer and its treatments
have weakened his body.
Grandpa keeps up the exercise and meditates for the pain.
The doctor says the radiation treatment is working.
At this rate, Grandpa will be cancer free soon!
It was too early to celebrate. The cancer had somehow gotten worse: stage 3.
Radiation therapy, which was treatment for localized cancers, was no longer as effective.
Grandpa made the difficult decision to swap to chemotherapy.
Although more powerful, chemotherapy targets the entire body, killing both good and bad cells.
The chemotherapy took a big toll on Grandpa's body.
He became bedridden, often needing to stay long days at the hospital.
He began staying at the hospital
to get the best care.
The oral cancer made it difficult
for him to speak or to eat.
It was also the peak of
covid-19,and quarantine policies
prevented family from
visiting.
When he wasn't resting, he
would be facetiming his family.
On good days, he would send us selfie updates.
Despite feeling weak and in pain from the chemotherapy,
he always managed to keep himself tidy and shaved.
For months, Grandpa held on.
Chemotherapy was eroding
his body and making
him weaker.
The treatments were too much for him to bear.
We knew what was coming, and made the decision to move him
to hospice care.
Not being able to be with family due to the hospital's quarantine regulations made it hard for all of us.
Seeing him in person was heartbreaking. The tumor had spread to his neck, swelling his face and making him unrecognizable.
The cancer had taken so much, and there was nothing we could
do but wait.
We knew it was time. Respecting Grandpa's wishes, we gave him one last shave to clean him up.
Grandpa was ready. Everyone took turns saying goodbye, holding his hand and staying by his side as he passed.
Losing my grandfather to the big C felt like I was grieving someone who was still alive. Chemotherapy and radiation reduced him to a husk, and it was painful to move forward with the looming threat of his inevitable end. I was torn between cherishing the time I had left with him and mourning the grandpa in my memories. When he passed, it felt so wrong to feel emotional about it. Subconsciously, I convinced myself that his death was a logical progression of events: a man lost his battle with cancer and died. We all saw this coming, so there's no point in being sad or upset about our loss. We were ready for this, right? I thought I was.
It was only months after his funeral when the realization hit me. I was cutting my brother's hair (a routine we picked up during the quarantine), and I remembered the last time I cut my grandpa's hair. It was days before he was admitted to hospice care. He was so fragile, slumped on our kitchen chair as I tried my best to work the clippers around the swelling of his jaw and neck. His graying hair fell to the tiled floors like petals off a withering flower. My grandpa had always been a man of appearances: he was consistently dressed well, maintained a well-groomed appearance, and exuded confidence wherever he went. Remembering him so far removed from his usual sophisticated look shattered me. The grief I thought I had escaped caught up to me, and I was not ready. No amount of mental preparation would ever have prepared me for this.
I realized that he wasn't just a 'man' who lost his battle to cancer. He was a caring husband, an enduring father, a gentle grandfather, a reliable brother, and a wise friend. He was more than what my rational mind summed him up to be. Thousands of cancer patients die every day, and even more die yearly. He was just a statistic in the grand scheme of things. In an attempt to protect myself from anticipatory grief, I had reduced him to a nobody. But he was somebody to not only me, but to many others. It wasn't right to remember him as a victim of cancer. I needed to remember him as the dapper war veteran who was unmatched in poker and doted on the young. He was my grandpa and so much more. I learned to be more appreciative of my time on Earth, of those around me, and of my health. My first lesson in loss is that it gives more than it takes.
Classical 9 by Jonny S.
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