Before Christmas, my granpa was told he has cancer. Ever since then, it has been a struggle against time, reality, life, heartache, pain, denial, ignorance and so much more.
Today, we met with the funeral planner. She was an hour and 15 minutes late, which pissed me off to no end because this shit is hard enough to deal with without a mixup in schedules, and then the whole meeting was rushed.
But, we picked out the coffin, planned the memorial lunch, decided that he would be buried with both his and my grandma's wedding rings (which I had hoped to keep), was told that I would write the obituary, deal with the majority of the arrangements, find the pallbearers, contact his dumbass relatives, pick out a suit, ensure that my grandparent's "song" 'Look At Us' by Vince Gill is played at the memorial, ensure there is no 'service folder' for keepsakes (you know those gawdawful things they hand out for people to keep but you end up throwing them away, anyway, even though they cost a motherfuckin' fortune to print? Yah. Those.)
Yup. It was a pro-fuckin'-ductive day.
I hate this shit.
I truly do. Where the hell are his kids to do this? Why am I left holding his hand, telling him it will be a "Helluva party!" when he says, "Only you and I will be there."
He was so great. He knows how tough this has been for me. So he told me before I left today that the Cross Cancer Institute visit that he has coming up is only for a routine check up.
I hated having to sit there with him as he picked out his casket. Who the hell does that?
Put yourself in my shoes for one minute. Imagine yourself as an only child with no other relatives to turn to and the person who means most to you in life, is dying. So, you sit with them, hold there hand, joke with them and then pick out a casket.
Yah. Good. Fucking. Times.
Everything else is on hold for me. Too bad for anyone who can't understand that.