So.

For the past month now I’ve been preparing and have prepared for the inevitable:

My grandfather checking out. From Earth.

This really isn’t my line. It’s one I use from an obituary. Geez, is that bad to readily admit that I’m stealing from an obituary?

Whatever.

I’m sure the dead don’t mind. Imitation is the best form of flattery. Right?

Right.

It’s really great, having a one sided conversation with yourself {in a blog post}. I’ve reached an all new high.

I do thoroughly enjoy that usage of checking out from Earth. Like you’re checking yourself out from the hospital or something.

Classic.

There was another great one where the person was referred to as going up into outer space with the “Good Lord”.  And it was written just like — in quotes.

I don’t mean for this to sound bad, and please don’t take it the wrong way but …

My grandfather can go. In actuality, he should have already checked out. Been on his way.

I am over it. OVER. It.

You prepare yourself so many times and are ready. This is it. You’ve been forewarned.

And then nothing.

It’s emotionally draining.

Hurry up and get it over with already.

Because this certainly is no quality of life that he’s living now. Having to rely on a team of people to dress him, feed him, all of the normal day to day necessities and functions, no longer on your own accord.

No, thanks. Not cool.

I stopped by yesterday to see him. He’s in a home now. Granted, it’s a nice home. But, still, it’s a home.

We all know what those are like.

I sat with him at dinner. He didn’t say much, and when and what he did I strained very closely to hear from a tired, raspy voice.

Ethel was sitting there with us. Ethel, whom I was informed, never talks.

Who suddenly wouldn’t stop talking.

If only I could have understood and caught one damn word that came out of her mouth.

I literally had no idea what the hell she was trying to articulate … say whaaaaat??

I’d sometimes have a general idea. Such as when she would be pointing outside, or at some random innate object.

But all her words sounded deeply mumbled and jumbled. Every now and then I was able to slightly catch about every fifth word — post my own reasoning.

I found myself being bombarded by questions from her. That at first I wasn’t even sure were questions, but judging from the tone and expression, I decided they were.

It was like the Spanish Inquisition cloaked as this old woman. What else was there to do but answer?

It started off as a rocky interrogation.

I had my own mumbled, uncomfortable responses. I tried ignoring her, but it was clear: she and her questions were not going away.

I started answering. Unsure and uncertain as to what I was even supposed to be answering.

Until I figured, f it! I’ll just go with it and have some fun.

The more questions she threw at me, the more outrageous my answers would become.

It was really fun. And in some weird way, liberating.

OH, the birds? Yeah, Eth – do you mind if I call you Eth? Yeah, my last bird watching expedition found me in a serious situation of bird attacks.

Did it hurt?

Only slightly, you know when they start pecking at you.

My eyes? Well I did wear a fuchsia color patch for about a week afterwards.

Is my grandfather single? He’s not but I know he enjoys having multiple ladies. Threesomes are where its at these days.

Thankfully the nurses enjoy my sense of humor and laughed along at that one.

Sharing your food? Yeah, I reallllly don’t think he wants one of your French Fries, but if you give him a sexy smile and try to feed it to him, he might like that.

Late night movies? He enjoys skinamax reruns.

What’s skinamax?

I’ll see if I can get that channel for you in your room.

The mention of skinamax was a shout out to my other gpa. Who checked out a good ten years ago.

In his final two weeks of life, he took to late night skinamax eps. I swear it single handedly added those two weeks on to his life.

Hey, inspiration comes in all sorts of different ways.

As I sat there, listening to Ethel and having to decipher what the heck she might be saying and asking (and silently thanking the stars that she wasn’t getting pissed off at me), I thought about how we all do this. In some form or another.

Trying to make sense of what someone is saying. Constructing their words to form our own story and ideas.

Maybe I’ve been an Ethel. Multiple times. Speaking in some coded tongue no one else has any f-ing clue about.

Maybe we’re all just a bunch of Ethels walking around here. Babbling on about things that no one else can get or see.

Waiting to check out.