I hate that when Gpa sleeps, he breathes very shallow and it takes a minute to be assured he is still alive.
I hate that his stomach does not tell his brain that he has eaten.
I hate that he thinks he is starving to death.
I hate that people think I’m being mean by bundling him up in 107 degree weather. (I don’t care what they think, I just get tired of explaining he has no body fat and is cold all the time)
I hate that he is losing his vocabulary and struggles to tell me about the cookie he wants to eat.
I hate that he doesn’t respond to: “Grandpa, Grandpa, Grandpa, George, George, George”
I hate the he doesn’t know when he’s going to the bathroom.
I hate that he can’t tell the old family stories anymore. Even the time I stuck a stick in his car keyhole and it broke off.
I hate that my grandbabies will only know the demented version of Gpa.
And I forget all about the above when he looks at me with that twinkle in his eye and smiles.
