Sometimes in life, no matter what effort is put forth, you can’t change things that happen. I learned this when I was 8 years old. The morning of the service my mom squeezed my legs into old tights that sagged between my legs and pulled an itchy black dress over my head, usually done with resisting, I stayed calm. I had been to a funeral twice before. Both times I never felt the sorrow as everyone else in the room had. I even tried to force myself to cry.  I just sat silent, hands in my lap, almost numb to the facts. Because we were direct relatives, our seats were in the very front of the room. There were pictures of my grandfather and the people close with him surrounding the casket along with gifts and plants to comfort the family. One of the many photos had my brother and I each holding one of my grandpas hand as we walked down a hill when that would bring us to a park we frequently visited when i was little. I was about 3 years old when the photo was taken and my grandpa being the large man he was, looked like a giant compared to us. Memories began to swirl as the funeral had begun and i found myself in a place of nostalgia.
I began to remember early mornings waking up and trudging down the staircase to meet the creaky wood floor and the open living room to see my Grandpa sitting in his oversized La-Z-Boy, with arms big enough for me to sit on and watch the news with him until he could tell i was growing impatient and change the channel to cartoons for my brother and I. Sometimes when my grandmother slept in, grandpa and I would tiptoe into her room and he would swoop me off the floor by my armpits to plant a big fat kiss on her cheek “Good Morning sleeping beauty!”  he had instructed me to say. He  treated her like Belle on the most average of days and showed every ounce of love he had to offer.  My grandfather was someone i could look up to.
When my grandpa died, we all saw it coming. ALS does that to you. ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease, disconnects the brain from your muscles  no longer allowing them to move. It starts out with your body becoming weaker and weaker until eventually there is no connection at all. It slowly takes over parts of the body until it simply doesn’t work anymore. As my grandfather suffered from an incurable disease, the whole family suffered. Watching each articulate movement wash away from his control. I can remember the first time I noticed his hands didn’t work the same. He was a large man, strides doubling my own as we walked out to his Jeep Wrangler. It took me a second longer than him to leap into the car after it was unlocked, and then I noticed he had his hand in the large pocket of his denim jacket fishing around for the key. A sigh and murmured cursing left his lips and I realized he was struggling. I stopped him and reached into the pocket myself to grab the key.   
“I can only drive for a few more weeks.”, he explained.
My family had explained many times what ALS, but the concept was not grasped until much later, and the usual aftermath of death was excluded for my own good. I often thought about how unfair it was for someone so loving and caring to get a disease like this and it often frustrated me that I, or anyone else couldn’t do a thing about it. That year more than often we took the hour long drive out to Milan to visit my grandparents, trying to hold on to the time that we could still enjoy his presence. It was hard to realize the changes occurring until his bed was moved to the middle of the dining room, and a ramp replaced the steps leading to the front porch. He could no longer walk upstairs. Everything he did required assistance. Going to the bathroom, eating, walking, the simplest of tasks no longer easy. Seeing my grandfather slowly turn to a vegetable disgusted me.
By our last visit he could no longer move his face and tongue muscles. His mouth could open just a little and each word was slurred and drowned out and we were left to make meaning of the sounds. When he spoke to me my face flushed red with shame that I could not understand. It made me feel uncomfortable when the message didn’t quite get across. These visits were no longer fun. The couches in the living room would be filled with bodies as we sat and participated in small talk. We all knew the disease was taking time away from our family, but faster than we had anticipated. When it was time to leave we all said our goodbyes. I wrapped my arms around my grandpa while he remained seated and unable to lift his arms high enough to hug back.
“I love you” mumbled from my grandfathers mouth. My mind was slow to make out what he had said to me.
“I love you too grandpa.” something that seemed like a “see ya later” ended up being a final goodbye and I still feel like I didn’t appreciate these last moments enough.
I drowned in my thoughts longer than i expected and I realized the service was over and I was brought to my feet to see my grandpas body one last time. I looked to my right to see my mothers eyes irritated and filled with tears. This was the first time I ever saw my mom cry. The weakness that was apparent in the lines of her face made her look like a child to me. We approached the casket to view the body one last time. He didn’t look the same without the pink that filled his cheeks. My grandma held my grandfathers cold hands and let out small sobs. I thought looking at my Grandfathers lifeless body would break my heart and cause tears to burst from my eyes as it brought me to the realization he was gone forever. Instead, I felt a small sense of happiness. As flustered and disturbed as I was, my head finally became clear. That entire year my Grandfather suffered from his disease, my family had no choice but to stand by and help the best they could. It was now finally over. The constant dragging on of each day where he would get worse and worse was now over. For once I didn’t see death as an awful horrible thing. Sometimes things happen that are entirely out of our control, and they are meant to teach us a lesson. At 8 years old I learned how fragile and precious the time we are given to live is and that life in its entirety is temporary. As my grandma and my mother were blinded by their own feelings of their loss of a father and husband, I realized this was a day I could be happy. His suffering was over, and because the world works in its own ways beyond our reach, we could all move on remembering to never take the people we love for granted.