Two Friday's ago my Grandpa was admitted to the ICMU. He's been having problems all year: infections, allergic reactions, and a car accident.

It turns out that over the last 5 years his body was succumbing to a medication that he was taking that was conflicting with all of the other medications that he had been prescribed.

This specific medication (when combined with all of the other meds) caused his platelet count to drop, which, in turn, shredded his immune system. It also caused him to get horrible mouth ulcers, which made it impossible for him to eat. These ulcers eventually spread to cover his entire GI tract.

John and I went to visit him as soon as he was admitted to the ICMU. He looked tired, and was a bit loopy from all of the morphine, but he looked good for someone who was stuck in a hospital. When I visited him last Monday he was off of the morphine, and was able to drink an entire cup of water (something that he had not been able to do in a while). I completely and totally thought he was on the mend.

There were subtle hints that my Grandpa gave me that led me to believe that he didn't think he would make it through this, but I put those hints on the back burner. My Grandpa has been through hell and back (heart surgery, had a colostomy bag for a time, diverticulitis, the list goes on...) , and he has pulled through all of them, I had no doubt that he would/could make it through this. If we could increase his platelets, keep his blood pressure stable, and make sure that he didn't catch an infection, we were golden.

Throughout the week I got updates from my family. There was never any stunning revelation, but there wasn't anything completely horrible either. I was confident that things would get better soon.

John, the kids and I went to visit him on Sunday, and it looked as if my world was going to crash to the ground. My Grandpa's blood pressure was dangerously low, and it looked like he got an infection (the one thing we had been trying to avoid all week).

Because his blood pressure was so low, he could not receive any pain medication, and because he could not receive any pain medication he was in constant, excruciating pain. He had not slept in several days. He was starting to become delirious.

I reluctantly went in to see him in his room. I wanted desperately to be able to visit with him, but at the same time I did NOT want my last memories with my Grandpa to be doleful.

As I walked to his room I could feel my heartbeat start to thump loudly in my chest. My mom blocked my immediate view of him, so I had a couple of seconds to collect myself. I put on my gloves, and entered the room. My mom moved so that I could speak to him, and when I finally saw him I was horrified.

The man laying in the bed was not my Grandpa, he was the shell of the man that I used to know. It looked as if he had lost more weight since the last time I saw him. He was curled into the fetal position, scrunched up on one side of the bed.

My mom announced my arrival to him. He forced his eyes open, and looked at my face - I did not see my Grandfather in his eyes. I rubbed his head - it was the only thing that soothed him - for a couple of minutes, but could not stay any longer. I told my Grandfather that I loved him, and left the hospital room. Intellectually I knew that this would be the last time that I would see him.

John and I left the hospital, and went to my Grandparents house for a couple of hours. We had planned to stay the night, but I decided at the last moment that I wanted to sleep in my own bed. We left around 7:00 p.m. and got home a little after 8:00 p.m.

At 10:00 p.m. my phone rang, and I knew when I saw who was calling - my mother - that it was going to be bad news. I couldn't hear the news directly, so I made John answer the phone. When my fears were realized, my legs buckled underneath me, and I started weeping.

I was given the specifics about how my Grandpa passed yesterday: Late Sunday evening, my Grandma, my Aunts and my mother were told by my Grandpa's doctors that he would not make it through the night. It was at that moment that my family decided that they wanted the last couple of hours that my Grandpa had on this earth to be pain free. In consultation with his doctors, my family decided to give my Grandpa a low dose of morphine. The moment his body drew in the morphine, he closed his eyes, and went to sleep. He was finally at peace, no longer in pain, and this is how my Grandpa went to heaven.

The last couple of days have been a blur. I still can't believe he's gone. My Grandpa's service will be Friday, and I'm not looking forward to it. I've been able to keep my emotions in check. I have been able to reflect, and remember the good times. I have also been able to deny the fact that Grandpa is no longer with us. The service on Friday will make it "final".

I've been trying my hardest to block the final memory that I have of my Grandpa. Whenever I think of him, I immediately get a flash of him in that hospital bed, something that I desperately wanted to avoid. I suppose I have to learn to accept the fact that this memory will be with me forever, but I will not do so willingly.

For those concerned, I am doing okay. I am still processing everything, and as I have stated before, I don't think the full brunt of what has happened will hit me until Friday (the day of the funeral). I am more concerned about how my Grandma will handle things when she no longer has funeral arrangements to fill her day.

I really don't know what else to say, except to say that my Grandfather was/is a great, and wonderful man. He made friends easily, and was an amazing friend to everyone he knew. He will be deeply, missed.