George Strait, Run

April 2011… I got a call from my youngest son’s dad one morning. He was still Active Duty Air force, months away from retiring. We still got along quite well and I was pretty involved with his family. I was standing outside, away from the prying ears of our 8 year old. Gregory asked me for the first big request that would begin our four year long journey of watching his older parents die… “Will you go to the hospital and check on my dad? My sisters say he’s fine, but they also said that Red Cross will be calling me.” If you need to know one thing about the military when Red Cross gets involved, it’s that death is basically imminent.

For years, I had referred to this family as my “fake in-laws”. It wasn’t in a demeaning way. They weren’t really my in-laws (had never been married to the man) but we celebrated holidays together and we got along like family, the good and the bad. We had an unspoken agreement that if we were with our son at a doctor’s appointment and they called us back saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson”, we didn’t correct them; it just wasn’t worth the time explaining to an Airman that we may never see again. Now, daycare and school was a totally different thing. Although we never referred to each other as a spouse, I was the “daughter-in-law”, when it came to dealing with his parents. How were we to explain to people the nature of my relationship with his family and have them understand because they couldn’t usually grasp the situation.

I got to the hospital and headed toward Granddaddy’s room. Honestly, I expected to see him sitting up in bed and chatting away, even if looking a bit tired, hoping this was all an overreaction. What I saw instead was this 6 foot 3 man lying flat on his back, jaundice, with a urine bag filled with what looked like watered down coffee. My immediate reaction inside my brain was, “This is what a dying man looks like”.

I walked over to the sisters and gave a brief, ‘good to see you hugg’ as they chatted away, oblivious to the seriousness going on around them. I think we all have those moments when our brain is protecting us from what’s to come.

In walks Granddaddy’s nurse. About 5 foot 7, slender, dark brown bob haircut. Funny the details one remembers from these times… Maybe I knew that she was about ready to change this family’s world and my mind took a snapshot of her. She asked if I was family and the sisters chimed in with, “She’s the daughter-in-law”. I smiled and said, “Yep. My kid is the heir to the throne.” (Long running joke in the family) The sisters start asking how they would have to change Granddaddy’s diet when he went home. With a puzzled look on her face, the nurse that yes, his diet would change, when he left there. That part wasn’t sinking in with them… Maybe, they were optimistically avoiding the truth. Having finally realized that he was in liver failure, the nurse and I locked eyes and I asked the question I was sent there for, “Is he actually going to be able to go home?” She quietly shook her head, I slightly nodded in reply. You see, my aunt had just died less than 6 months prior of basically the same thing. Although I wasn’t back home when it was going on, based on conversation with my family, I knew the road ahead we were about to take. The sisters were quietly crying because now they knew what they had been avoiding. And I knew that I would have to speak up and get the answers to questions that his son would have been asking. That is exactly what I told her… “I am here on behalf of his son so please say what needs to be said so I can let him know.” He woudl be stabilized for transport to an extended care facility but in the meantime, a Red Cross volunteer would come in to start getting information to bring his son home.

Shortly after, in walked a short, plump woman that just exuded love and warmth. You just knew that she was the one that could give the best huggs and hold you tight while you cried. She started asking military questions… base, rank, last four, squadron, etc. I knew all of the answers and gave them. My job right then was to make things a bit easier on the sisters so they could be there for each other. She looked at Granddaddy, then looked at us and asked, “Can I pray for all of you?” I can’t recall the exact words but I do remember the feeling of guidance and support.

I sent the text… “Let me know when you’re ready.” My phone rang. I stepped out in to the hallway and started walking and said, “What all do you want to know?” The reply was, “Everything.”

“Get here now. I don’t care how you do it, just get here. Drive down, get on a plane, just get here now.”

Granddaddy died about a month later with his son at his side, holding his hand. Every time I hear this song, I remember telling his son almost the exact same words, “Oh, baby run”.