This is my Grandpa Wayne.
[yes, I'm aware that I have used this picture a bunch of times but too bad. It's the only one I can find without digging for hours.]
My grandparents basically raised me; I spent most of my childhood at their home because my parents were working crazy shifts so I was getting passed off to them. From the time that I can remember, my grandpa has always been my best friend.
From the time that I can remember Grandpa had been sick.I would take road trips to Salt Lake to the hospital with my grandparents on an almost
monthly basis. [this is part of why I hate hospitals]
I didn't think much of it, I just knew that Grandpa had to have a lot of blood taken for tests and that I had to sit very quietly in the waiting room with my books until they were done with the tests.
Once I got older I wasn't spending as much time at Grandma and Grandpa's house. I was able to take care of myself and didn't have to stay with them after school.
The first time that I really remember realizing what was going on I was in 7th or 8th grade. Grandpa had to be taken to the hospital because he couldn't keep any food down. He was hooked up to monitors and IV's and all sorts of monitors. The doctors said that he had ammonia building up that was making it hard for his body to function properly. He was in the hospital for a week.
Fast forward to my senior year of high school: Gramps had been in and out of the hospital for various reasons. I didn't think anything about it because he would always pull through it. The last time that Grandpa went to the hospital it was the end of softball season. I was so occupied with games and getting ready for state that I didn't think twice about going to see him.
I was playing our last home game. Against our rival school. I hit an over-the-fence home run and dedicated it to him. He had been in the hospital for over a week and things weren't looking good.
The next day was our last region game. I knew that I shouldn't go,
I knew that I needed to go to Salt Lake to see him. I went to the game. I played.
I played like crap. As soon as the game was over I knew that something was wrong. I went into the dugout and looked at my phone. I had 12 missed calls. 30 texts. Most of which said
"WHERE ARE YOU? GET TO THE HOSPITAL NOW!"
But I didn't. I told myself he'd pull through it.
On the bus ride home my Grandma called me. I crouched down in my seat and answered her. She asked me to give the prayer at the funeral.
My grandpa had passed away during my game.
She said that he had been asking for me. Instantly guilt washed over me. My best friend had been asking for me and I had ignored it.
I learned something that day.
I learned that I need to be a better friend.
I learned that I need to pay attention and heed the promptings that I receive.
Every day I ask for forgiveness from him for not being there when he needed me.
At the funeral my cousins and I stayed as far away from the receiving line as possible.
At the end of the viewing we all walked toward the casket. I couldn't even look at him. I got twenty feet away, looked at my Grandma, and broke down. I was heartbroken. I cried for weeks.
This is why I quit softball. I was devastated that I chose a game over my family, the most
important thing in life. I just couldn't hack it anymore.
