Paul S. Welch

1918-2000

Grandpa Paul died in the morning on February 25, 2000. On February 24, I boarded the red-eye from San Francisco to JFK. I was supposed to go home the next weekend, but my Mom had called on Tuesday and said I should come home earlier.

My memory of that night and the following morning is vivid; the details are still clear in my head over two years later. The movie on the flight was Music of the Heart. I watched the whole thing. I couldn't sleep despite the lack of sleep I had gotten that week worrying about Grandpa. It was a decent movie, and I felt fairly calm. I had no idea how bad things actually were.

Chris and Daddy picked me up at the airport. Chris was in a lot of distress and Daddy said he didn't want to lie to me about Grandpa's condition. I still didn't get it. I thought I would be able to say goodbye to Grandpa and leave on Monday with him maybe even recovering from his latest setback. We got in the car and headed straight for Branford, CT.

When we arrived at the Evergreen Woods Health Center I was tired, felt dirty and really wanted to brush my teeth. But I just made a quick stop in the bathroom and headed down to Grandpa's room.

The door to his room was closed, and Aunt Cyndie came out. I burst into tears the second I saw her, hugged her and cried on her shoulder. Then Mom came out and asked me if I wanted to go in to see Grandpa. I didn't have to, she said, the choice was mine. And I am so glad I did. I was nervous. He had been so thin and frail when I saw him at Christmas. Yet he looked so strong fighting for each intermittent breath. I leaned over him and hugged him. All I could get out was a whispered, "I love you, Grandpa." Then I held his hand.

He passed away within five minutes of me walking in the room. I have no idea how he knew I was there, but he must have.

Grandpa gave me many gifts over the years. He paid for me to go to summer camp in high school. On my graduation from college, he gave me more than I ever expected. But the best gift he ever gave me was the few minutes that my head was on his chest and I could hear his labored breathing. He wasn't supposed to live through the night, but he did. And he said goodbye to me. I am overwhelmed by his strength and often feel undeserving of his generosity. I wish I could tell him how much it meant to me.

I am not a very religious person, but I feel that Grandpa is an angel and is watching over me. When good things happen I always thank him. When things go wrong and they work out in the end, I feel it was his intervention that made it all right. I feel too guilty after the enormous gift he gave me that final night to ask for anything. Yet he always seems to help me anyway. Thank you, Grandpa, and I love you.