Alkahest my heroes have always died at the end

I heard from my mom today that my grandfather died this afternoon.  It wasn’t a complete shock.  He never fully recovered from a stroke a few years ago, was recently suffering bouts of ventricular tachycardia, had just this week been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer (which recently claimed Randy Pausch – go watch his “last lecture“), and had signed a DNR order.

I never did know my grandfather that well.  Of my five grandparents, he was the one whom we visited least while growing up.  There’s also the difficulty of understanding someone 50+ years older than you.  And his general Norwegian disposition, a silent doer, made it difficult to know what was in his head. I suspect you got to know my grandfather more by working with him than talking to him.

By the time I was in my twenties, my family started to have more contact with my grandfather.  He drove down to NC for the graduation ceremony.  We talked some about having him down again to help build some bookshelves.  (One of the things I know about him is that he was an excellent wood worker.  He’s built all sorts of furniture, and I think even the cross that hangs in his church.)  That was 11 years ago, and one of the last times I saw him before his stroke: a tall strong man in his early 70s.  The last time I saw him, was three years ago on his 80th birthday.  He was still mentally aware, and remained that way through this week.  We still don’t have any details on his funeral.  I’m hoping we get them soon enough to make plans to travel to Iowa.

Sorry for the rough stream of conciousness post.  My head’s not all here.