Sundays with George

(Disclaimer -- I'm writing this on my BlackBerry, so excuse any typos.)

Here I sit, BlackBerry in hand, Caribou Coffee cooler resting to my left and a view out a large bay window directly in front of me. The Twins game is on the 19-inch TV and isn't going how I would like, and my grandfather is sleeping in his bed to my right.

Most Sundays, I visit him.

Last post, I wrote about my relationship with my grandmother. She died Oct. 18 of last year. My grandfather George had already been succumbing to his battle with Alzheimer's and six days after her passing, my family said their goodbyes to my grandmother. My grandfather fell down earlier in the day, hurting himself, and had to be brought to the hospital.

My grandmother, poor health and all, had a sharp mind and was in control of their lives for as long as I've been alive and I'm sure long before then.

My grandfather didn't get his goodbye. After a night in the hospital, he was transferred to a nursing home where he has been the last 6 and 1/2 months.

The first month was rough. He had forgotten everything, everyone and was entirely incoherent.

He eventually got some of his memory back, but that has been fading the last five months.

Most of my family can't grasp the reality of the situation. Still reeling from my grandmother's death, they are either in denial of my grandfather's condition or are plain ignorant.

There's a palpable absoluteness to me here: We're all going to die. I know that, not to be grim or dire, but because it's the one thing that is guaranteed to us. Love, life and laughter are desirable, but are not a given. Death is a given.

And, I say this, as someone who used to refer to himself as a realist and would be called a pessimist. Now, I say this as someone who considers himself a realist and would hope to be looked as an optimist. You need to work for everything else in this life.

Because I can handle the reality of the situation, I spend the time with my grandfather as often as time allows. Work, life and distance are minor issues I work with.

At least every other Sunday (if not more often at times), I am here to be with him. There have been times he has been sleeping. There have been times he can't talk. I'm here.

The issue many people in my family have is they fail to understand how his disease works. There are no rules. My grandfather does not know my name. He knows no one's name but my aunt, Darcy, who is with him every day. But for some reason, he remembers me as the "newspaper boy." And you know what? You bet I'll take that.

My father gets upset because, as only the third person my grandpa remembers, he is called "the man with the beard," and it bothers him. My father will need a few posts to himself, so we'll leave it at that.

But my father, like most people in my family, think my grandpa is just playing around and isn't really sick. Somehow, in their warped minds, they think an 85-year-old man is invincible. They, unlike me, will be unprepared for his death, which is especially disappointing because their lack of realism has left them empty with my grandma's death.

My father and aunt are really the only two (other than me) who regularly visit my grandpa. It's a similar situation to my grandmother when she was a mainstay at the hospital for the remaining weeks of her life. It's what leaves the worst taste in my mouth. They visit so sporadically -- if at all -- they get upset when he doesn't have a clue who they are.

Again, they think he's joking. They don't understand waking up for him each day is a challenge and his level of understanding and comprehension change as often as he blinks his eyes. Some days he knows things, the next he doesn't.

Instead of enjoying their time with him and making him comfortable, they put the attention on themselves. Typical.

Like my grandmother, my grandpa left quite the impression on my life (and continues to do so with his decaying health).

I was always a grandma's boy, but in the last 12 years or so, my grandfather and I grew closer and closer. Few people in my family understand how he operates. A stern man, he spent his life in law enforcement. Order was always the protocol, but, if you were like me and on his good side, he would open up and show the softer side of him. It's when he shined most.

He was a man of respect. Treat him with it, you got it in return. He was, however, easily agitated and frustrated by many things. One time when my grandmother and I were playing a card game on the porch at their lake cabin, my foot was tapping, and even though the door was shut, he came in and told me to stop. For no reason, that has stuck with me. I obeyed his request and it wasn't an issue anymore. I honestly feel that had an impact on how our relationship developed.

The stories are plenty, but the time is too little. And weekly, I work on making new memories, however little they may be. Looking over to him, taking a break from straining my eyes on this tiny screen, the sun is shining from his right and his profile is glowing. It looks like he is floating. He is peaceful.

When his peace is up and he must go, I know I will be OK and will wish my friend goodbye. I'm happy to have these Sundays and our time together, regardless if we share many words or no words.

Thank you for being a friend, Bea.

Bea Arthur.

To some, she was the old, deep-voiced lady on "The Golden Girls." The show, of course, being in many peoples' eyes as the precursor to "Sex and the City."

To others, well, she was the old, deep-voiced lady on "The Golden Girls."

Held in high regard, Bea was a TV, film and stage star. To me, she meant a lot more than that.

Her passing has left an absence in my life. Routinely, I catch reruns of the show on TV and joyously watch. Other times, when I feel up to it, I will pull out one of the seasons on DVD and pop it into my PS2 and watch a few episodes.

You see, Dorothy, Sophia, Rose and Blanche meant more to me than just four fictional characters.

The acerbic, witty Dorothy. The acid-tongue Sophia. The promiscuous Blanche and naïve Rose were all apart of how I came to be.

Each summer until I was about 14, I would spend parts of the season at my grandparents' cabin on Mille Lacs Lake. Fishing, golf-cart driving and Paul Bunyan Land were usual activities. But one, nightly, involved a bowl of vanilla ice cream and an hour of watching "The Golden Girls." During the rest of the year, we would nestle in our favorite chairs in her suburban Minneapolis condo.

The show, as polished as they come, was a bonding point for my grandmother and me. She and I got along swimmingly. She truly was one of my best friends. When, as a youth, I lived without direction from my parents, she was always available to help guide me through troubled waters that I frequented all too often. This continued until her death in October.

Bea's passing brings back the struggles of the last six months. You see, on top of history lessons and random trivia, the swimming, the stories and gin rummy and other card games, my grandmother taught me a lot about living and being an ethical person. "The Golden Girls" often jump-started many a conversation about how to act and treat people. The biting dialogue helped me develop my humor. As a youth, I learned to respectfully treat the elderly because of this show. It taught me not to discriminate (to a certain extent) based on one's appearance. Still today, people scoff at the notion I enjoy such a show because it's just "four old ladies." Get real.

The show means so much more to me than just a sitcom, and with each passing of a cast member -- Estelle Getty, who played Sophia, had already passed -- it brings back the reality that my friend is no longer near.

But, with a bowl of vanilla ice cream in hand, I can look at pictures of past, play a DVD of our show, and think of simpler and jovial times before I had responsibility and she had to leave me.