Another One Bites the Dust!

I dropped another pound this week. I think that if I could only get my ass moving that I would be able to lose weight even faster, but I'm still proud of how quickly I seem to be losing it just from diet alone.

My grandfather turns 90 tomorrow. I convinced my parents to go with me to his place and have cake tonight since I have a midterm tomorrow night & work all day. It's such a big milestone. It really made me sad that his other son, grandson (in town) & only great-grandchild couldn't be bothered to join us even though they were all aware & invited. He's really seeming to go downhill though. It's hard to see because he's always been so with it. I think that losing his voice is what's really worn at him because he lost the ability to communicate for the most part. I think that he honestly wishes that he wasn't still alive, and if I was him I would feel the same. He spends every day just sitting in his wheelchair looking down the road, basically. There's no real quality of life anymore. He cried a lot tonight, which Dad finds really hard to handle and gets all defensive about. Being there with Dad made visiting tougher because he gets all edgy about anything that he thinks might upset Papa in anyway, even if it doesn't. It's hard on the nerves.

I have to write an essay for one of my French classes on an exceptional person, real or imaginary. I chose my Grammie. Thinking about her life and thinking about my grandfather's life (opposite sides of the family) have really made me think a lot about mortality tonight. I've been in a mopey mood most of the day anyway, so this hasn't really cheered me up.

I hate that even though Papa is still alive, it's like he's trapped in his body and really already gone. I can't ask him about how he knew that Nanny was the one or how they made it through long distance when he was stationed in Halifax to train sharp shooters during WWII and she was in Fredericton. I can't ask his opinion on Jeff, or our future situations. Even though his body's here, I mourn the chances I should still be able to have with him alive. I mourn that I never really got the chance to know him as a person when I was a little kid, or to really spend time with just him. It kills me to see him sitting there looking kind of depressed and alone in his wheelchair, realizing that people are talking around him but not being able to take part, with bumps that are likely skin cancer on his head and occasionally drool from his mouth. It's hard to see someone who took good care of themselves just letting themselves go. It's hard to realize that this is life in its reality; this is what mortality looks like. This is what we each must face.