Grandfather Is Dying

My sister has managed to post two articles about rape on Facebook in the last 24 minutes. I’m so proud to know she’s thinking about rape – advocating for its victims, sounding off about the alarming rise in cases reported, and keeping us honest about the injustices seen in and outside of the courtroom – but for the love of God, when is she planning to call me back?

I am thrilled, just THRILLED to know she’s thinking about women’s rights and spends her lunch breaks posting articles that pretty much amount to Brock Turner Is a Fucking Piece of Shit Rat Ass Garbage Hell Hole Specimen, but when is she going to call me back?

I’ve been trying to tell her that Grandfather is dying since yesterday morning. That’s over 13 hours, or approximately 390 sexual assaults since I first reached out.

If she’d answer, she’d know that Mom is doing well considering her favorite parent is dying. She’d know that I am not. She would probably want to know where my promise is, the one where I swore that as long as he lived a healthy life and could dance at his 100th birthday party, we’d let him be and wouldn’t cry when this time came.

He just stopped eating. He was fine last month, and it’s like all of a sudden he’s made this irreversible decision to move on, with or without us being ready to take those steps with him. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that we don’t take the steps by his side, we are instead left walking behind a hearse.

I’m devastated. Calm, but totally emotional. And very, very certain that he would want me to purchase a black, wide-brim hat and some cool-looking round sunglasses for this funeral. A funeral we wouldn’t have to plan if he would just sit up and ask for dinner. They would be delighted to fetch it. They would go running like fools, and race to be the first one back. He could have anything he wanted.

Anything in the world.

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