The Final Battle

Strength, passion, courage, and wisdom; these are the words that best describe my grandfather. Ever since I was a little girl, I looked up to him–and not just because he was 7’1. My brother and I were his world. He'd eagerly scoop us up into his lap and tell us stories, show us old pictures, and teach us about character. We even got to help him in the garden, which was his signature accomplishment. I remember strolling by his side through the rows of dirt, as he picked the vegetables and I proudly held the bucket. I learned more about responsibility and hard work from him than through any job I’ve ever had. Although my grandparents lived in seclusion, he always made our visits interesting and enjoyable.

As I grew older, I realized what this man’s life had involved. He lost his first daughter (my Aunt) to spina bifida when she was only seven years old. He was an 82^nd Airborne paratrooper in World War II and fought in D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge. He has seen best friends die, and missed years of his family life. He was the strongest man I knew. However, these obstacles never altered his spirit; his caring, supportive, sensitive nature always withstood the tough times.

With old age advancing, the tough times began taking over. My grandfather’s health was fading, and it was taking his spirit as well. Although he was still thrilled to see us, I could see the dismay in his eyes. The green cabbage leaves and bright red strawberries which used to fill the rows of his garden slowly turned a rotten brown. He no longer had the energy to do his typical daily activities. This frustrated my grandfather. Ironically I wasn’t too concerned at that point; many of my friends had already lost a grandparent and I felt as if having mine alive and well made them untouchable.

Little did I know just how bad the situation was. It’s as if his health problems produced a chain reaction, like a line of dominos. First physically, then filtering into his emotional and mental state. He didn’t only look different, he acted different. I didn’t see the joy in his eyes, even when he smiled. I didn’t sense emotion in his voice, even when he talked for hours. Something inside me felt uneasy, but I denied this fear and kept telling myself things would change. Maybe he was just having a bad day.

On May 24, 2004 I came home from school just like any other day. I received a phone call from my dad and minutes later he arrived at home. I had that “gut feeling” that something was wrong. Before my dad even opened his mouth, I knew I was about to receive bad news, but nothing could prepare me for what I heard.

“Dada died this morning.”

I had never seen my dad cry before. I just sat there, in shock. The first thing that came to my mind was "What happened?" I knew his health had been failing, but he wasn’t in and out of the hospital.

“How?” I quickly asked.

This felt like the longest ten seconds of my life, until Dad finally pushed the words out of his mouth.

“He shot himself…in the chest.”

From this day on, I was never able to view life the same. Not only did I realize it does not last forever, I also understood that everyone, no matter how strong, has weaknesses. My grandfather was going through things much more severe than health loss. I felt immediate anger, and did for a long time. How could he do that to us? But I realized as times passed, he did what he felt he had to. While he was still alive, he wasn’t truly living.

Although it was a horrible incident, my family is a hundred times closer because of it. Death can occur when you least expect it, and until that day I felt as if my family and I were in a bubble, protected us from harm. Nothing prepared me for this, and I learned nothing ever can. I appreciate every moment I spend with not just my family but people in general. We never really know what others are dealing with in their own lives, sometimes not even our own family members. Life is too precious to assume it is invincible. Time is something we have no control over, and I now value it to the fullest.