Sometimes the Worst Things Lead to the Best

I want to introduce you to my grandpa, T.

My dad’s stepdad’s name was Terry. Although not related to me by blood, he was just as much a part of my family as my blood relatives are. He was more than a grandpa to me �" he was my friend.

I’d been hanging out with T every month for as far back as I can remember. Every time my family and I would go into Littleton to get our hair cut, we stopped at Granny and T’s house. My sister and I would either watch TV and eat snacks in the kitchen while Granny cooked that day’s food or sit and talk with T in the bedroom while we watched his TV or listened to music.

T loved music. Since I also love music more than most things in life, I always loved watching concerts on TV with him, whether they were of 80’s bands or country stars. When I went to my first concert, T wanted to listen to the music I experienced live so I brought him the cd I had bought at the concert. He really knew how to make me feel special and important. He loved photography too, which was something he and my sister bonded over. I posed as their model more than once.

I always felt T’s care for me and for what I was doing in my life. When I was in gymnastics, I loved showing him what I was learning. When I was in 4-H, he asked me about what I was doing in it. He was always willing to patiently listen to me talk about horses, art, or whatever else I was interested in at a given time and he loved letting me share it with him (I drew him a lot of pictures of horses and beaches �" some of my favorite things!).

The only thing that held T back was his MS. Like any other disease, every case of Multiple Sclerosis looks different. His took away a lot of his motor functions. By the time I knew him, he was bound to a bed and a wheelchair. When I was younger, he spent a lot of time in his wheelchair and almost always joined us at the table for meals. But as time went on, it got harder and harder for my Granny to get him out of bed and for him to feel well enough to stay up with us. During his last couple of years, he wasn’t able to get up very much at all. Almost all of the time I had with him then was spent in their bedroom, which was perfectly fine with me because I could sit on the giant fluffy bed with their giant fluffy dog and talk or watch TV with him.

January of 2013, the month I turned 16, was one of the hardest times in my life. T got sick around the 12th of that month. He started to weaken and slow down the next day. On Monday the 14th (if I remember correctly), Granny called an ambulance because he had become unresponsive and he went into the hospital. To be honest, I wasn’t really worried about it. The MS weakened his immune system so he went into the hospital a lot but he always came home fine. I went about my business that day like every other time he was in the hospital.

My dad got off work early that day and went to the hospital to be with Granny and some other family members. This also was not unusual; in the past there had been many close calls at the hospital with family called in to see him. But that night, I remember walking past my mom in the kitchen while she was on the phone with my dad. She was speaking to him as if to someone gravely distressed. I remember thinking, “Is it really that bad?” And I started to worry.

I’ll never forget what happened next.

My mom walked back to my sister’s and my bedrooms and called us out into the hallway. My heart was racing. I didn’t know what was coming, but I didn’t want to believe it could be what she said next. She looked at us and said, voice breaking, “He’s gone.”

I was numb.

I stood there with my mom and my sister for I don’t know how long. I don’t even know if I cried at all just then. I just remember finally breaking away and going back to my room where I was working on coloring a mandala, which is supposed to be calming. I still have that coloring page.

The next day was rough, worse than the day he died. Sometime that afternoon I started to have an anxiety attack. I sat on the couch, shaking and nauseous, for probably an hour or more. That was when my mom realized my anxiety was actually prohibiting my daily functioning. That night I went to the Bible study my youth pastor held for high school students. I sweet-talked my best friend, who studied massage therapy for a while, into rubbing my back, which was sore from the tension the hours of shaking had put on my muscles.

I don’t know what we talked about that night in Bible study. Only one thing stuck with me from those two hours in my youth pastor’s basement. That was him looking straight at me and asking, with some of the deepest compassion I’ve ever seen in him, how I was doing �" and then telling me that he and the church’s prayer team were praying for me and my family. That was one of the two special displays of compassion I experienced during my time of grief. The other came from one of my good friends at youth group the next night. What she did was simple but so caring it brought tears to my eyes. We said hello when we saw each other that night and, out of her usual courtesy, she asked me how I was. After a short pause, I told her I was okay. She asked why I was just okay, and after another pause, I simply said that my grandpa had just died. Immediately, she reached out to hug me. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed as she pulled me close to her. That simple gesture of sweet concern almost made me cry right then and there. I don’t think I’ll ever forget those two encouragements I received that terrible week.

The next couple of weeks were a blur. I don’t remember anything from them. T’s memorial service was held on the 25th, four days before my 16thbirthday. It was not a “sweet” sixteen.

The worst thing about T’s death was all the regrets I have. I regret not talking about Jesus more with him. I regret all those days I didn’t spend with him because it felt “awkward.” I regret not giving him one last hug the last time I saw him and not telling him to “take care” like he always told me.

I regret not telling him, “I love you.”

Sometimes I think about all the things in my life he didn’t and won’t get to experience with me. He didn’t get to see me get my first job. He didn’t get to meet my boyfriend. He didn’t get to see me graduate high school. He didn’t get to watch me go through the college-picking process and finally settle on a counseling degree at a tiny Bible college in the middle of a Nebraska cornfield. He won’t get to see me graduate from that college and go to grad school. He won’t get to see me start a counseling job and won’t get to hear me talk about my success stories in counseling. He won’t get to see me marry the man I love.

But even though he can’t be a part of those moments, I have now realized that he was preparing me for them. All those times I spent listening to him tell me how to pick a good man, all those times he encouraged me and told me how beautiful I am, all those times he motivated me when I wanted to quit school �" all those times he was actually pouring his wisdom into me, making me stronger and getting me ready for the future. I know that T would love my boyfriend but would tell him over and over to respect and take care of me. I know that T would love the woman I grew into and would continue to tell me that I am worth so much more than I know. And I know that T would be so proud of my choice in college and career and yet would still give me tips to get through school and do well in a job. I only wish he could have prepared me for when he wasn’t here anymore.

As hard as it was to lose my grandpa and friend, God really taught me a lot through it that I wouldn’t have learned otherwise. The main thing I learned (which might seem obvious) is that you never know when you’re seeing someone for the last time. Anything can happen in a moment �" T died within three days of getting what seemed to be just a simple cold. The other important thing I learned from losing T was the importance of these three words: “I love you.” Before he passed, I was scared to tell people I loved them. For some reason it seemed awkward so I just didn’t do it. Now I make sure that everyone I love knows that I love them. I tell my roommates I love them when we part ways for the day or the evening. I tell my family I love them every time I talk to them since we’re states apart right now. I tell my grandparents I love them every time I see them or talk to them because I never know when it’s going to be the last time. And when it came time for my other grandpa to meet Jesus, the last thing I told him was how much I loved him and how thankful I was for him. Now I don’t have to worry if I’ve said what needed to be said or if the people I love know that I love them because I know the answer is yes. And for that I am eternally grateful.

The one thing I wish was different is I don’t know if T knew Jesus. I really wish I had the comfort of knowing I’d see him in eternity. But I hold on to one hope in this regard �" that in those last few hours of his life, when he was unresponsive to the world around him, maybe he was meeting Jesus.

I don’t know how much longer T could have been around if he didn’t have MS, but I know that the relationship I had with him would not have been the same if he didn’t deal with that disease. I don’t know what I could have said or done that would’ve made parting easier, but I do know what I would say if I got to see him one more time:

I love you, T. Take care.