The Day the Angels Cried

I stood in the spare bedroom of my grandparents house on Sunday, August 6th at around 9 PM. Alongside me stood my father, and his sister-in-law, my aunt Debbie. On the bed asleep, attached to an oxygen machine, was my PawPaw. He wasn’t the same man we used to see on his John Deere lawnmower cutting everyone’s grass. Nor was he the same man that would pull up to the schoolhouse in his beat up ‘72 Ford pickup on any given school day to pick us up because Momma could not be there. He wasn’t the same man that sang every Sunday in the church choir, and he wasn’t the same man who used to help clean the high school cafeteria after he retired. It seemed that that man had already gone on to Heaven, and just left his shell behind so we could have a little more time with him.

I didn’t have school the week of April 24th-28th. The underclassmen were testing, and the Senior class did not have to go in until lunch. Thus, I only had two classes, and both were rather easy, so I really didn’t have school. One would think that that week would have been great. That was not the case, however. On Tuesday, April 25th, my mother, my aunt, and PawPaw went to a cancer specialist recommended by our family doctor. I was eating supper that night when Momma told me the news.

“PawPaw’s prostate cancer is back,” she said in tears, “They’ve given him nine months to live.” I sat my fork down and pushed my plate away. Time stood completely still, and a feeling of dread spread throughout my body. I think Momma said something else after that, but I’m not really sure. Even if she did, I couldn’t hear it. I was too busy trying to comprehend why he only had nine months left. I stood up from my place at the table and began to walk out of the kitchen. “Are you done eating?” Momma asked me. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

The rest of April and all of May passed, and nothing seemed to change. PawPaw was still PawPaw. It was true that he didn’t sing in the choir, but he was still in church. He was also still the same caring man he had always been. Then the first Sunday in June came around, and PawPaw couldn’t get the strength to go to church. Father’s Day came, and PawPaw was somewhat like himself. He was up, but not moving around much, and he was still joking like the same old man who had a different joke everyday. Then Father’s Day was over.

One day toward the end of June my Aunt Debbie called me and asked me to come out to their house. PawPaw needed to use the bathroom, and she needed some help getting him on the little portable toilet they had bought. I went outside, got in my truck, and drove out to PawPaw’s. When I arrived in the bedroom, Aunt Debbie had already gotten PawPaw to sit up on the edge of the bed. We got him on the toilet, and when he was finished got him back into the bed. I walked out of the room to see MawMaw, and then returned to the bedroom. I hugged PawPaw, and asked him how he felt. The next two words he said would haunt me for the rest of the summer, and probably the rest of my life. “Like shit.” I stumbled out of the bedroom, walked into the bathroom, and for the first time in front of anyone else, I cried over the situation

The last time that PawPaw was really himself was in July. He was laying in bed and I walked into his room. I hugged his neck.

“Hey, PawPaw,” I said, “How are you feeling?” “With my hands,” he replied while smiling. It took me a minute to catch what he said, but then I remembered everything he had ever taught me in my life. “How you getting along?” I asked. “With my feet.” “Whatcha thinking?” “Anything I want to.” “Whatcha saying?” “That’s according to where you’re at.” That was the last time that PawPaw was actually PawPaw.

And that brings everything to Sunday, August 6th. A few days earlier I had some booster shots so that my immunizations would be up to date, thus being able to enter college. The thing about the booster shots were I could not be around anyone with a weak immune system for three weeks, because they could catch the measles from me. Daddy came to me at eight o’clock that night and told me I needed to go see PawPaw. The doctors had said not to go around him for three weeks. Dad said “Go now.” So there we stood, my aunt, my father, and I, all three of us nearly in tears. PawPaw was asleep while we were standing there. I left his house that night, and I knew I would never see him alive again.

It was 8:30 Monday morning. I was sitting in my room, playing WWF:SmackDown! on the Sony Playstation. The fire alarm at the local fire department went off, and the phone rang. My brother came running down the hallway. “Get your clothes on,” he shouted, “PawPaw’s stopped breathing.” My sister hit the floor, she could barely breathe. I threw on some shoes, and my brother told me one of us needed to get out to PawPaw’s. I ran out the door as fast as I could, and went the back way to the house. I ran by the bedroom where they had the hospital bed, and they had PawPaw on the floor because he had gone into cardiac arrest. I went straight to MawMaw’s bedroom, and sat down beside MawMaw and Momma. MawMaw was crying, so I hugged her. The only words I could manage to say were “He’s gone home.” A lot of people began to show up, and eventually they took PawPaw on to the hospital. The EMS had been called out, so they had to. Later that night my brother and I were talking and Michael said to me “The true test of a man’s character is not what he did or didn’t do in life, but rather how many people loved him. Be prepared tomorrow night at the Receiving, cause PawPaw had the best character any human could ask for.”

The Receiving Friends came along, and what my brother had said was proven true. My best friend worked for the funeral home that was running the Receiving. He said in the few months he had worked there that summer, that PawPaw’s Receiving had one of the largest turn-outs of all. One of my old Sunday School teachers hugged me that night and what she said has stuck with me since. “We both lost a best friend.” And she was right

A month later I can’t help but wonder if he knew the impact he had upon my life. I’m sure he did. PawPaw was a second father to his six grandchildren. He couldn’t have had a stronger impact than that. The night after his funeral I was talking to my brother and sister in our kitchen. “You know what the first three things he did when he got to Heaven?” I asked. Michael and Michelle replied “What?” “He introduced himself to everyone, took out his wallet and showed everyone the picture of the six of us and told everyone we had two hearts, ours and his. Then he started cutting Heaven’s grass.” “Yeah,” my brother said, “he’s getting a place ready for us.”

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