When I was about 7 years old my grandfather died of lung cancer that spread to his brain. He was my father’s father and had smoked cigarettes since he was about 13 years old. Some time before his death they had found the cancer and did surgery on him to remove it, telling him not to smoke any longer. He took that to mean that he should switch to a pipe. That was not a good idea.
My dad told me when he was a kid he used to sit on the floor to watch TV so as to be below the cloud of smoke coming from my grandfather. He had to put up with hours of my grandfather’s lectures. He was forced into helping my grandfather fix up the house, even on Christmas when he had brought my mom home to meet my grandparents for the first time. My dad knew all the strengths and faults of my grandfather. I did not.
As flawed as my grandfather was, he was my favorite grandparent. We called him “the grandpa toy” because all he ever did was play with us kids. My only memories of him are of me laughing with him. My favorite picture of him was where he was covered in our toys, looking very regal, and using our toy vacuum cleaner as his scepter. I never wanted the fun to end.
Towards the end I wasn’t allowed to see my grandfather. He was in a lot of pain and my parents were afraid it would scare me to see him like that. My dad wished he could have taken his pain away, but he couldn’t. I just wish I had said goodbye.
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