A Beautiful Death

I've never been afraid of cancer.  Cancer was something that happened to other people and to other people's families, not mine.  Of course, I had sympathy and compassion for survivors and for those still fighting this awful disease, but I have never been near it.  You might think it's naive, or narrow-minded, or selfish but I'm just telling you that cancer has never been something that I have ever worried about.  Until last week.

Homer Lewis Truslow was born on December 8, 1926 in Nellysford, Virginia.  His father was a blacksmith.  His mother was shot and killed while she was standing on the front porch of their home; my grandfather clutching her apron.  He was six years old.

From Virginia, he traveled the world.  After watching one group of soldiers walking down a dirt road and another group riding in a caravan, he pointed to the riding soldiers and asked why they weren't walking.  When someone said, 'Air Force rides, Army walks.', he decided to enlist in the United States Air Force.  Iceland.  Japan.  Alaska.  World War II.  The Korean War.  Just to name a few.

My grandfather met Wanda Mae Jenkins in 1953.  He had a motorcycle, a tattoo, and a twinkle in his eye.  She rolled her eyes and said she'd never be with a man who wore motorcycle boots and ink on his arm.  They were engaged almost immediately and then spent a year apart before their wedding while he was stationed in Iceland.  They lived for each other.  In.Every.Way.Possible.

Five months ago, my Grandfather, or Papa, was a robust, 86 year old man who knew no bounds.  He just bought his first tractor...a purchase for which he had literally waited a lifetime.  In October, he was lifting 80lb bags of concrete.  He was still telling stories about jumping out of an airplane over the Himalayan jungle and watching the plane crash to the ground.  He could tell you just exactly how to get anywhere you needed to go in the United States without looking at a map.  Satellites and GPS devices had nothing on the knowledge inside his head.  But most importantly, five months ago, he was taking care of my Grandma. 

My Grandfather's love for my Grandma never waned.  As her health started to decline, he stepped in and did the things that she no longer could.  He cooked - even if she was the one directing.  He cleaned - even if she had her own 'suggestions' on how to do it the 'right way'.  He drove - even if she refused to wear her seat belt.  He put her quilts in the frame so she could quilt, he kept the fires going, and he did every.thing.in.his.power. to keep her happy.  His happiness laid in her happiness. 

Four and a half months ago, he had a heart attack and a few days later he had a series of strokes.  He spent a month in a rehabilitation center, where he spent time re-learning everyday skills.  Two months ago, he was diagnosed with Stage 4 bone cancer, with indications that it had spread to other parts of his body.  Three weeks ago, the cancer metastasized to his brain and he began in-home hospice care.

We lost him eight days ago.  He was surrounded by people that loved him and the people he loved.  I was so blessed to spend his last days with him.  So blessed that I got to tell him goodbye.  I knew he could hear me as he rubbed my hands while I thanked him for teaching me to count change, for churning the ice cream bucket on hot summer days when all of the kids gave up, for making me cheese omelets, for teaching me patience, and for showing me that it's not impossible to always, always do the right thing.  He never raised his voice, he never got angry, and above all else, he was always, always kind.

These photos are of his last days and they are a gut-wrenching testament to true love and to wedding vows that really do mean something.  It's a strange thing to see the beauty in death; to find comfort in the end, but the love that surrounded him in his last days is such a rarity that I felt compelled to capture it.  Everyone who visited, everyone who fed him, held his hand, talked to him, kissed him on the head.  His loyal sidekick, Joey, who never left his side.  My son playing peek-a-boo over his bed rails.  The constant presence of the love of his life. If there is such a thing as a beautiful death, my grandfather was of the most deserving, and it was an honor to call him my Pa.   

My son, Henry, with his Pa.

This is the last photo that was taken of my Grandparents.  He passed away the next day.  

Thank you for your continued thoughts, prayers, healing vibes, and faraway hugs for my Grandmother.  Learning to live alone after 60 years of marriage is unbearable for her.