Pop

My last surviving grandparent is my mother's dad. My Pop. He's 91 and these days calls a local high care aged care facility home.

Pop has been one of my best friends over the years and a genuinely positive role model in my life. Always encouraging. Always believing in my potential, even during those horror adolescent years when even I couldn't see it, let alone others.

Among other influences, his spruiking of the benefits of a military life were probably the reason I served in the Reserve as a younger man. Might've gone full time, too, if I hadn't developed Epilepsy. One year, while marching with my unit in the Anzac Day parade here in Melbourne, he and my sister were on the side of the road. I'd seen them from a distance, but once we got closer I couldn't turn my head to see them beside me, although we were only feet apart.

Pop made some comment like "looking good lads" or something similar. Despite my best efforts to keep a straight face, a slight curl at the side of my mouth gave me away. My sister said "he heard you!". To which he replied, "Of course he heard, sweetchick, they're not deaf!".

He taught me chess. I'll never forget his smart arse remarks whenever I'd try to watch tv and play at the same time. Of course, my concentration would be shot and he'd roll over the top of me!

Up until he was about 85 I really thought he'd be cracking the ton.* He was spritely, energetic and full of life. But that year, 2000, was the one that took the wind out of him. Over a twelve month period he lost his ability to walk without a frame, some cognitive function, his wife of 62 years and as a result of all that, naturally his confidence, too.

These days its pretty much a day by day proposition. I don't visit him as much as I'd like and it saddens me greatly. I used to be able to say I had no time which, notwithstanding that old "you can always make time" truism, was pretty much true. I was deeply engaged with an activity of which Pop was enormously proud. I got kudos for that and it kind of got me off the hook a bit. But that time has passed now. That activity is over and my work hours are now very civilised indeed, I must say!

There's something uncomfortable about visiting him. I'd like to think it's not just personal awkwardness at the environment he's in, or boredom at the lack of conversation. I'd like to think I'm a better grandson or, for that matter, a better person than that. But honestly I can't rule it out.

The thing that gets me, is that I think he notices the awkwardness, too. I believe he can see from the way I look at him, or talk to him, or whatever that he isn't the same Pop anymore. I think he feels hurt by that. And I think that's why I don't like going.

But what if I'm wrong? What if he can't see what I credit him with seeing and would he just love to see me, even without conversation. Or maybe he does feel the hurt but would still rather see me. I don't know what to do. I've spent enough time with him over the years that I won't have any regrets about these last few, but it still hurts. It's like dealing with the grief before the death.

*reach 100 years of age, in case that bit of jargon is not familiar to you :)