I was 15 when my Pa passed. He had been in bed for hours, rolling around in discomfort and pain, and saying things that made no sense to the common ear.
Earlier that morning, my grandma Baba had taken Pa for a routine checkup with his doctor. These routine checkups were pretty regular since Pa was slowly dying of what I called ‘a broken liver’. You see, Pa was an alcoholic most of his life. He drank when he was happy, he drank when he was mad and sad, he drank morning, noon, and night, really. For many years leading up to his death, the doctor told Pa that his drinking would have a dramatic impact on his body, at a young age, if he did not get control. Alcoholism is a disease, and we watched Pa drink at parties and holidays, while watching football games, in the kitchen making breakfast, and in the garage listening to Patsy Cline.
In the Summer of 2001, Pa was given an ultimatum. His doctor said he needed either to stop drinking and live for a bit … or keep drinking and die soon. Pa’s choice was both. He kept drinking, because that was the life he wanted to live, even if it meant he would only last a few more months.
The morning of October 25, 2001, Baba took Pa to what would be his final doctor’s appointment. The doctor gave him six months to live, at most, and sent him on his way. I was home sick that day, and I watched the car pull back into the driveway. Baba helped Pa out of the car. They walked towards the front steps, then Pa stopped. In the blink of an eye, he fell on the sidewalk. I ran outside to help him up, but his weightless body made it impossible.
The remainder of this story is a little grey, a little patchy. My mind tries to piece together exactly how the rest of that day and night turned out. This is what happened, as well as I can remember.
Pa made it to his recliner in the living room with the help of a family friend, whom we called to come over. Pa was no longer having realistic conversation. I couldn’t even tell if he knew who I was. These delusionals lasted all afternoon, as more and more people stopped by to see Pa.
Around sundown we moved Pa to his bed. His pain and discomfort seemed to worsen, and the delusions grew more intense. I laid with Pa. There were moments when I really felt like he was getting better. He would say something that made sense, just like in days past. But Pa wasn’t getting better. I could tell by the sadness on Baba’s face that she knew something I could not quite grasp. I did not feel the sadness I saw on my family’s faces.
I remember my Aunt Janice laying with us in bed. She spoke so sweetly to Pa. “It’s OK, Dave, it’s OK to go now. We love you very much.” He seemed to hear her, and we watched his body calm down as she spoke to him.
The night grew darker and darker, and Pa seemed to be getting worse.
“Seventeen!” he yelled.
“Seventeen?” we asked.
“Seventeen!” he yelled again.
“What is 'seventeen', Pa? What does that mean?”
It started to get late, and I had school the next day. I trusted my family; Pa would be in good hands until morning. I kissed him goodnight, told him I loved him very much, and snuck off to bed.
“Nicole … honey … wake up.”
I opened my eyes. It was still dark out.
“Honey, Pa passed away.”
My grandfather, David Leroy Troup, took me under his wing when I was just three years old. He raised me, together with my Baba, until the day he died. Pa taught me to be bold and courageous, to stand up for myself. He taught me always to be myself, because I am all I ever really need. Pa loved me more than most. He was my best friend.
It has been nineteen years since my Pa died. I think about him all the time. To this day we have no idea what the number 'seventeen' was all about. I like to think that he left us with that mystery on purpose. And now when I see that number, I think of Pa, and it brings a smile to my face. I still see him in my dreams, I think of him when I hear Patsy Cline, and I will never forget the pure and genuine kindness he showed to others. I see it in myself every day. This is his legacy. This is my grief story.
