My grandfather passed away at about four something p.m. on December 1st -- 16 days before his 78th birthday. He was diagnosed with lung cancer, and had an operation 3 years ago. His doctors promised him his cancer was gone and he had absolutely nothing to worry about. Little did we know that they were wrong.
My grandfather's condition worsened every year, and on the last year of his life he began to get treated with chemotherapy. I was against it, because I knew that even though it would prolong his life somewhat, it would make those extra few months, painful and torturous. And I was right, because his last month on earth was unbearable and ended with a difficult death.
I figured if they hadn't treated him with Chemotherapy, he would have less time to live but it wouldn't be as harsh, but my parents and he insisted on it, causing him on his last living week to lose speech, comprehension and practically all mobility.
I remember how I visited him in the Rehabilitation Center only hours before he died, and how he looked straight at me almost as if he recognized who I was. And how I silently said goodbye and that I loved him right before I left. It was almost symbolic, and brings tears to my eyes every time I remember it.
And I remember how annoyed I was every time he asked me to read for him or to draw him a picture when he was still somewhat well, and how angry I am at myself now knowing that I couldn't do that one little thing for him because I was too lazy after he had done so much for me.
But now, I can't do anything about it. I'll never be able to show how much I really love him. No more grandpa. All that's left now, is the empty side of his bed, and my tears on his pillow.
I am a fifteen-year-old high school student who has lost her grandfather and cannot cope with the pain...