By the time I was seven I had no biological grandfathers.  My dad’s father died of multiple strokes, even my mom never got to meet him.  My dad’s side of the family shares lots of stories about him, it makes me feel like he isn't a complete stranger.  We call my mom’s dad Pop-pop because he always used to make popping noises with his mouth to make me and my sister laugh when we were little.  He and my Grandma lived in this ginormous house that always felt slightly like a castle in NJ.  We didn’t get to see them often because it was a 7 hour drive but we would go down for Passover if not Thanksgiving.  I don’t have many memories of him because I was so young when he was healthy, only snippets of things he used to do or say.  How he never would allow anyone to call his hair white because it was “silver” even though it was as white as fresh snow on a winter morning.  How his bed head looked like cotton candy on steroids, his round Santa Claus belly, and how he called everyone youngster as if it were our names, and how he would say, “ I miss you already” when we were leaving, which my 5 year-old self found very confusing. My longest memories of him however, are of the weeks before he died.
     My grandfather died of lung and esophageal cancer in 2010. He was just a few months shy of 70 when his time came.   He didn’t want to die in the hospital so we had visiting nurses and a hospital bed with all that he needed in the comfort of the downstairs guest room.  I remember not being allowed to go downstairs at all.  It was super frustrating being a curious 6 year old and forced to stay away from all the action.  Upstairs I had 3 bedrooms, games, bathrooms, and a TV plus the company of my younger sister and two older cousins. My parents brought our meals and snacks upstairs so we had no excuse to be downstairs.  A few times a day adults would come up and check on us.  One time my uncle came upstairs and taught us how to play a few card games because he knew we were bored to tears.
     When it was getting closer to Pop-pop’s end, a few days before Thanksgiving, the adults let us each say an individual goodbye.  I walked downstairs not knowing what to expect or fully understanding what this final goodbye meant I was just happy to be downstairs.  Walking into the guest room was a shock.  My grandparents always kept their house spotless. Not a single item out of place.   The guest room however was a mess, clothes, hospital machines and other objects I can’t quite remember sprawled out everywhere.  A blanket and pillow on the chair in the corner proved that someone had been sleeping in there with him.  It reeked of desperation and hopelessness all in one.  The room smelled like a hospital. The worst part about that goodbye was actually seeing Pop-pop.
     I was aware he was very sick and going to die any day, and was forewarned that he didn’t look like his normal self. Unfortunately in my six year old mind he would just be sitting in the bed, belly still as round as Santa Claus, his hair still white as snow, calling me youngster and telling me that he missed me already.  I was wrong. Even if I had something prepared to say, I would have been speechless.  It was disturbing to see he had shrunk, he no longer had a big belly, his face was blue and almost unrecognizable from a lack of oxygen.  It was silent except for the beeping of his machines.  I stood frozen at the door for a few seconds before my mom ushered be to the right side of his bed.  We were only given a few minutes to say goodbye.  Slowly, I crept over to his bedside and held his bony hands that used to be thick and strong. 
      It can be unbearable not to remember my last conversation with him. Sometimes I try to see if I can dig anything he said out of the back of my mind… It doesn’t work.  I would love to hear his perspective on the stories my grandma has told me about their life together and to hear more about how he saw the world now that I’m older.  I wish the same about my grandfather.  In his life he was one of the top leaders of BMI and lived in several interesting places worldwide.  Plus I’ve never heard about his childhood.  It’s been my experience that most people wishes they could talk to, or ask an unanswered questions to dead loved ones.  I believe they do check up on our lives and help us in little ways, but only they know what happens after death, so I don’t bother to worry about what happens after death because everyone is bound to know the big secret soon enough.