Papa

You know how there are some things you say to prepare yourself for certain events?  I do this all the time.  Like... "If something were to happen to (insert person's name), I would react logically and rationally.  I wouldn't react based on emotions."  Ok, so maybe not everyone is that extreme in their thinking, but for me, that's the typical scenario.

Easier said than done.  Every time.

I'm not exactly sure where to start.  I guess I'll start from my perspective, when the man I call Papa was called "Mr. Dean."  This would be 11 years ago, when I was in 9th grade.  Who knew that this couple moving to town would cause events that would significantly affect the course of my life.  I say that because when Mr. Dean met me, (for some reason) he began praying (fervently) that one of his grandsons would "snatch me up."  HELLO!!!! I was in the 9th grade!  And let me be the first to say that he wasn't quiet about this prayer.  He reminded me often that he just KNEW, without a doubt, that I would end up with one of his grandsons.  Ok, so that could be possible, seeing that he has dozens of them (slight exaggeration).  But I always disagreed and thought he was just a crazy old man.  Because we both knew the only grandsons of his that I knew were the Grants.  And geez....the Grants?  Seriously?!  No thanks.....

(Yes those were really my thoughts) (then)

Well, long story short and a bunch of not-to-relevant details later, you can clearly see I ate my words and Mr. Dean's prayers were answered with a big, fat yes.  I now call him Papa.

Fast forward a few years... Enter Roscoe.  To understand what comes next, you have to understand the name choice.  Roscoe is Mark's great-grandfather.  It goes Roscoe-Gerald-Tim-Gerald (that's Mark's first name)-Roscoe.  Cool, I know..... Our little Roscoe's middle name is Porter.  Papa's middle name is Porter.  So put Roscoe Porter Grant together and you have an ultra-cool family name.

That's what hit me today when I went back to visit Papa in ICU.  I walked over to his bed and he started crying.  That's all he physically could do.  I don't know what he was thinking.  I probably never will, but I hugged him, still dry-eyed.  Then I reached down to grab his hand and I saw it.  That wristband with his name: Jack Porter Dean.  The Porter in that name just jumped out at me and I realized that no matter what happens to him through this whole ordeal, his namesake was out in the lobby, being held and loved on by family.  On one hand you've got an old life, ready and eager to step into eternity, and on the other you have a new life, barely beginning his journey.  So much for dry eyes.  The tears started falling as I realized that our precious boy will most likely not remember the sweet, loving, practical-joking, whistling, smiling, laughing so hard his shoulders bounce up and down Papa that I've grown to love over the years.  And that's just my perspective of 11 years.  He's got a family of over 30 blood relatives (children and grandchildren alone) that I know could drop another plethora of adjectives to describe him.

He had a stroke on Sunday.  My brain is hurting trying to remember all the details.  It's been a long couple of days, emotionally if nothing else.  He can't swallow or talk.  He has a living will and is refusing a feeding tube or any other sort of tube to nourish him.  He's even refusing an IV.  Before you get all judgmental, realize that this is something he and Granny decided long ago.  The decision wasn't made this week, it was made years back when Papa was healthy and cognitive of the implications of such decisions.  Even today, the doctors made sure he understood what this refusal meant and every time he nodded.  From his perspective, he doesn't want to be a vegetable, trapped inside a body, and he doesn't want to be a burden to family.  Even though there is physical therapy for this and he has a chance of getting better, that's not what he wants.  So as his family, we're respecting his decision.  Does it make it any easier?  Of course not.

I really need to read the book One Thousand Gifts.  My sister-in-law Beth has been building her list of gifts for months now, and is still counting somewhere around 1100.  I realized today that God had given Roscoe to the family as a huge gift of love and grace in the midst of seemingly dark circumstances.  We got to the hospital sometime just past noon.  I didn't have any plans of staying or leaving, really.  You know how it is with a baby... We were just going to play it by ear.  As soon as I got there, God turned Roscoe into our little angel gift.  There was something about a little baby that was like a calming salve on the wounds of hurting family.  Any time a family member was overwhelmed and needed some "baby therapy," as we were calling it, they would come out into the main area and hold Roscoe.  And each and every time, he snuggled right into that person's chest, almost as if by cuddling close enough to the heart, he could temporarily heal it.  I'm talking transitioning from smiling and being in a playful, wide-awake mood to *bam* instant snuggle machine.  All day long...from noon until just past 9 when the poor little guy was too tuckered out and fell asleep.  Thank you God for that good gift...

Other family is on the way in, including Mark, and Daniel, his brother.  So this is bittersweet.  I get Mark back for a few days, but don't like the circumstances bringing him here.

Updates will come as I have them.  Until then, a picture of us from the day he went from being just Mr. Dean to being Papa.