This morning I received a message from my mom. My Grandpa Owens died in his sleep early Monday morning.
My grandpa has been dying all summer, it started with a GI bleed (gastrointestinal) that put him in the hospital and headed in a slow decline to Hospice and a bed in the living room, oxygen, a walker and a shell of a really great guy. He was 91 years old, he lived a good life (from my perspective).
I had the opportunity to go see him and my grandma on Saturday. I remember thinking on my way over that I wasn't sure I wanted to see him but I did. And I understood my reservations when I saw him. It wasn't my grandpa anymore though, he was gone already really. The man I hugged and said, "see you" to wasn't the grandpa who told funny "look at my thumb, gee you're dumb" jokes or had a temper that could scare you stiff (we don't call it "pulling a George Owens" for nothing) or the guy who talked about selling my dog to the Chinese restaurant or who always asked about my job and my career. He wasn't the guy who loved me, treated Joc with kindness and respect (regardless of what he believed) and asked about Patrick. That man, my grandpa, hasn't been around since the spring. And I feel okay with how I left him both Saturday and the last time I saw him.
He was at home. My mom was there. His children had all been home and seen him in the last month. He was as ready as he could be.
So long grandpa, thank you for everything you've given me in this life. May you rest in peace always.