Grandpa

Last night, probably as I was crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, my Grandfather, Augustus Marshall, transitioned from this world to the beyond. He'd been in and out of the hospital for years. This last and final visit revealed a cancer of indeterminable origin. Stage 4. Within 3 weeks he has passed. How does that happen?

I had spent the past few weekends home in DC with family, by his side. The first visit was jolting. He seemed so small laying in that dank, impersonal room in the ICU. My first instinct was to give him warmth, to touch him, make him feel something familiar. I found a few square inches not covered by wiring and blankets around his shoulder. I put my hand there, closed my eyes and transferred all of the warm energy I could from my limbs into his. His skin, as always, was baby soft; his facial features strained but stately. What a handsome, handsome man. I later brushed his hair, coaxed by my Mother who knew he wouldn't want us to see it splayed into flecks of white lightning.

It soon became clear that the most important thing was to make him comfortable. At 83 and in his physical condition, chemo just didn't make sense. Each of us, in our own way, went about making that happen. And, in doing so, processed the pain and the reality. My Grandmother exhausted the doctors and nurses with endless questions and suggestions. My Father, his oldest son, took on the roll of chief communicator, disseminating information and updates to our family. He also completely re-landscaped the backyard. It's beautiful. My Sister, a cancer survivor herself, pumped him up with experienced words of hope and encouragement. My Mother, who hadn't seen him in years, literally made his heartbeat rise when she walked into the room. My Grandfather always believed in the power of prayer, and my Mother's are the most potent.

Me? I pulled out my iphone and tuned it to WBGO Jazz 88. A favorite station of mine, it's always reminded me of my Grandfather. Of curling up in a warm house on a frigid winter day surrounded by a strong, black family full of history and love for each other. My Dad chopping vegetables to the beat of the base, stimulating discourse, laughter. Soul and substance. Family. Grandpa couldn't speak or open his eyes for long, but he smiled when he heard the sounds of Ella, Duke, the Count, Thelonious cutting through the silent sterility of that room. It made me smile, too. I let it play and play, eventually lulling him to sleep.