My grandpa was a relatively healthy person for a person his age. Even for a person who worked in a steel mill nearly all of his life, he was healthy. He was active, always going on small 'adventures' for no apparent reason. That is until the unthinkable happened.

It was an oddly warm night in February of 2014. My grandparents had just finished their dinner, which consisted of bean soup and bread. It was my grandpa's favorite. He could eat bowls of it if he could. They got situated, lying next to each other in the queen size in their room. My grandpa emerged from the bed at around 11:30 and rushed to the bathroom. He began gasping for air as he vomited into the toilet bowl. My grandma called the ambulance and then she called us. And, by us, I mean my mother and I.

My family was very included in my grandparents’ lives. Maybe that’s why it emotionally crushed us when we received her phone call. My siblings fell asleep early and my mother and I rushed out the door and started to their house. I specifically remember the moment we arrived. The ambulance was already there, the flashing lights blinding us through the car window. My grandpa was already being loaded into the ambulance by the time we got in the house.

Everything happened pretty quickly after that. One moment, we were in the house, trying to remain optimistic about the entire situation. And, in the next, we were on our way to the hospital with tears in our eyes, hoping and praying that we’d make it in time to see him at least one more time. The hospital wasn’t far. The three of us piled into my grandmother’s car and we met the ambulance at the hospital.  Of course, my grandpa was rushed in through the double doors and we were forced to wait in the waiting room, where my grandmother would periodically let out a shuddery sigh before falling silent once again.

We weren’t actually allowed to see him. A doctor informed us that he was being taken to Cleveland Clinic. On a helicopter. At that point, I think everyone knew that it was out of the small, mediocre hospital’s hands. So, we were off again. This time, all the way to Cleveland Clinic. The drive from Aultman Hospital to Cleveland Clinic felt like one of the longest I have ever taken. Maybe it was because I was waiting, desperately waiting to get even the slightest glimpse of my grandfather. It may have been the last.

The doctors and nurses were pleasant with us when we arrived, our cheeks tear-stained and our eyes blotchy and red.

“They’ve take him for an emergency surgery.” Those words stuck with me. As we were told to take a seat, I replayed the words over and over in my head. What was wrong with him? Apparently, it was bad enough that he had to get an emergency surgery. I remember looking around the waiting, silently wishing that some kind of miracle would occur. If miracles exist.

Dr. Mason was my grandpa’s primary surgeon on this issue at hand. He conducted this emergency surgery. When he approached us and called out my grandpa’s name, I think everyone thought the worst. There’s no way he made it out alive. But he did. Dr. Mason mentioned the fact that my grandpa perforated his esophagus and couldn’t speak, eat or drink anything for the entire duration of the recovery. While elation isn’t the word you’d think of using in this situation, I was elated. Elated that he wasn’t dead or on life support, fighting for his life.
We got to see him immediately. He was awake and I remember seeing his eyes light up when they landed on us. He was happy to have his family with him. There was a tube in his mouth that prevented him from speaking at all. The wires hung down below him, tangled in a way that was unflattering in the least.

“I thought you were going to die.” My grandma whispered, breaking the thick layer of silence that seemed to invite itself into the hospital room. We all thought it. She was just the one who said it. My grandpa chuckled as best he could through the tube, trying to make light of the situation. And, in that moment, I knew that everything was going to be okay.

The next few weeks were hard on everyone. We all wanted to see him but it seemed irrational to make that long drive every day. We traveled to the hospital one final time on March 18th. This time, we could take him home. But it wasn’t that easy. My grandmother had to take a day class, learning how to feed my grandfather through a feeding tube using TPN. He could finally speak as the tube had left his trachea a week prior. Once my grandma finished the class, it was time. He could come home.

The TPN was slightly hard to handle. Other than the emotional stress on our part, it was the hardest part of this whole ordeal.

"We'll insert it through the PICC line." My grandma walked me through the entirety of the miniature medical procedure that we were performing right in their living room. I specifically remember one instance when we attempted to administer the TPN through the PICC line and, instead of putting fluids in, stomach acid came out. It sprayed onto the ceiling above us.

"That'll be there for a while." I joked. My grandparents both chuckled, staring at the contents of my grandpa's stomach above them.

"A new memento for the house." My grandma continued on with it. It turned out to be the biggest inside joke between the three of us.

It was all okay. But my grandfather wasn’t the same person. He no longer had the energy to do meaningless, insignificant tasks. The things that seemed unimportant to us. But, no, we long to have that back. We wish that he would go to the store only to compare the prices of three different sizes and brands of salt. We thought he’d be himself but that still isn’t the case. And the worst part, he hasn’t eaten bean soup since that faithful day.