The Rest Of The Story - Part I

It's time to tell the rest of the story. It's a sad story. It's hard to tell the story because in an attempt to hide some ugly truths, I left facts out of the story of Pop-Pop's move here. Pop-Pop was in a nursing home. There he was very, very sad. He is a man with high intelligence, a great sense of humor and very social. His wife felt she could not (would not) take care of him. He was 2 hours away from us, so our visits were never enough. He asked to be moved out of the nursing home, said he wishes he were dead, there must be someway out. We offered many reasonable solutions, many. We faced harsh criticism at every turn. Finally, Pop-Pop asked, "Can I come and live with you?" "Yes, but what about Grammy?" "She will come and visit, maybe she'll even move up, too." (not a chance) "Are you sure you want to come?" "Yes, please, I won't be much trouble, I'll eat whatever you make, I just do whatever you do, please. But sometimes I fart." *laughter* "So does your grandson, you can sit with him at the dinner table." *more laughter* "Thank you, I promise, I won't be much trouble." "Okay, Dad. We'd love to have you."

That's when the letters and emails started. "He's a sick man. You can't do it. He's weak. I do not support this in anyway. He belongs in a nursing home. He's in the best possible place. He's got dementia. I know he says he wishes he were dead, but so does everyone else in the nursing home. He'll be at that nursing home until he dies. Blah, blah, blah . . . ."

Pop-pop thrived here. He gained 5 pounds (after losing 40 at the nursing home), got much steadier on his feet, told jokes, laughed, went to the mall, out for ice cream, church, the diner, Panera Bread . . . he did whatever we did and ate whatever we ate and only farted once at the table. Once he laughed so hard his teeth fell out. He smiled all the time. He said, "I love it here. You guys are perfect. This sure is something. I love my new computer (which he played games on). I'll never forget it, never, never. (why is there sadness in his voice?) . . . to be continued.