I remember that my mom spent a lot of time at his house while he was sick.  She helped my grandmother take care of him.  He had cancer.  The man who I thought would never die, who would see me graduate, get married and meet my kids had a prognosis of 6 months to live.

Pancreatic cancer became the biggest thorn in my side.  I became obsessed with knowing about the cancer, how it spread, what drugs would kill it and how far the researcher were on finding a cure.  It seemed to be surreal at the beginning.  He was the same Bappaw as he had always been.  Quiet and smooth in his movements, he went through life as he always had.  His days were filled with getting his land back in order after the hurricane, except for the hour long trips to the hospital to get chemo.  He was on experimental drugs and was monitored closely.  I wouldn't have known he was sick if it hadn't been for the pill bottles that spread across the kitchen table, collecting as the months went by.  He kept strong throughout the first year but everyone could see he was weakening.  Hours spent outside working slowly changed to long naps in his chair.  Spontaneous drives through the forestry become short trips to see family or friends.  Christmas became priceless as he made the haul to see Russell and Meagan's house.  This was the last Christmas we got to spend with him.
He spent many days under a blanket, taking a nap and trying to get enough rest.  He lost a lot of weight throughout his illness.  It was hard to see the once invincible man have a hard time sitting up in a chair for more than 30 minutes.  That man was tough, though.  He never complained or whined about being sick.  He told me that he was going to, "Live until I die".  He took the illness in stride and dealt with what God had given to him.  I remember that on one occasion, while he was still able to get up and walk around, I was sitting at the kitchen table studying.  I had just started my first semester at HBU and I had a test the next week.  As I sat there, all I could think of was wanting some sort of sign that he knew I was there.  I wanted him to acknowledge me.  I remember praying to God to help him show a little of his old self.  I needed to see a glimpse of my Bappaw.  As he walked by, his strong, callused hand squeezed my shoulder.  It was a small gesture of love, but it was what I needed.  He told me he loved me in his own way.  As I left to go back home, I knew that it was going to be the last time I saw him walking.
 Pretty soon after that, he spent more time in his bed and less time in the living room.  The last two months of his life consisted of my mom and aunt helping him to the bathroom, eating, drinking, etc.  He, however, was able to stay at home and did not need to go to the hospital for any long length of time.  My granny decided that he needed to have hospice at the end of April and got everything set up.  A bed was brought in and he was more comfortable.
He only spent about a week in the hospital bed.  I got a phone call around 2 in the morning on May 5 that he had passed away.  I never saw him after I got the shoulder squeeze.
After he passed, the funeral was planned and my grandmother asked my brother and I to sing.  It was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

As three years have passed, I miss him just as much today as I did then.  I am sad he won't see me graduate. I know that he was proud of me.  I know that he loved me and I know that I will see him again.  Still, it doesn't make the hurt go away.  It doesn't make the  part of my heart that broke three years ago mend faster. The memories help.  The pictures of things we did together or places he took me help me to remember the man I adored.