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Hi Everyone,
This last week was not an easy one . . . and before I started typing I made sure that a box of Kleenexes was sitting on the computer table in front of me—I would advise you to grab some too. Four and a half months ago we were blessed to have my Grandpa—Robert Brockmiller, Mama’s Daddy, move in with us. His health was failing and Mama’s siblings wanted him to come and spend his last days with us. He was pretty sick and weak when he arrived—but he still had quite a bit of spunk. I remember that first day when he got out of the truck and walked ahead of us with his walker towards the house. All of a sudden we realized that he had to go up two steps to get into the house and we rushed forward to help him—but he picked up his walker real high and climbed those steps like a pro. His communication skills were not very good, and he had a hard time telling us stories. After a week or so of spending time with us and us spending time talking with him he began to be able to communicate in complete sentences. He laughed and teased—and he encouraged and praised. We had seasons of playing chess and doing Sudoku. Then there were puzzles and pictures to color. Sometimes he would go with Papa to do the evening chores, and sometimes he would come outside to watch us milk the cows. Grandpa would sit and watch us package eggs—and to his dismay he even had the privilege of sitting and watching us process chickens. If he was awake someone was spending time with him except most days when we milked the cows. If Mama had a doctor’s appointment Grandpa went with her. If we had errands to run—Grandpa went with us (usually Mama would drive, Grandpa would accompany and I would get out and run the errands). Sometimes when there was nothing special to do he would ask Mama to go get his car and take him for a ride through the country.
Grandpa ate every meal with us—and ate everything I served him but carrots, onions and greens. He would eat broccoli soufflé as long as we didn’t say it was “broccoli” soufflé. He was a hardy eater. For breakfast he ate a bowl of oatmeal, a piece of jelly toast and some scrambled eggs—along with a glass of milk and a glass of grape juice. As time went by he started to get a little picky. He told Mama that he didn’t want to eat any more of that bad stuff—vegetables and meat. Grandpa wanted oatmeal three times a day! After two weeks he was tired of that and wanted eggs and toast for every meal—and fried eggs at that! Then he no longer wanted any food—just a glass of chocolate milk three to five times a day, and he would get so excited when we brought it to him. Little by little he was slowing down and walking became harder and harder. He was struggling to breathe if he walked too much so we had to get him some oxygen.
Then a week ago my Aunt Carol and Uncle Jerry (Grandpa’s son) came for a visit, and while they were here Grandpa had a spell—he glazed over and couldn’t communicate. We knew his days were numbered and it looked like it would be soon. Every day I told Grandpa I loved him—and he told me he loved me too, but that day Grandpa had slept a lot and I stayed in the background to allow his son and daughter-in-law to visit with him. There I sat wanting to tell Grandpa that I loved him and hear him tell me that he loved me one more time. About an hour or so later Grandpa came to—and may I say that I wasted no time sitting down beside him to tell him that I loved him. Grandpa answered back that he loved me too. Mama came over and he told her that he loved her and that we all loved each other. It was precious! If Grandpa had died right then I would have been perfectly fine with it—but we were blessed with a few more good days.
Since Grandpa was so weak we were told that the best thing for him was a hospital bed—so Friday afternoon Hospice delivered a bed for Grandpa. When we got Grandpa moved off the sofa and into the bed he looked at Mama and told her that he knew why the bed was there—because he was dying. His wife died of cancer at home in a hospital bed. Saturday Grandpa tried to color some—a pastime he enjoyed, but he didn’t have the strength to get a colored pencil to leave any color on the page. So I was elected to finish his picture for him. When I came in from milking and climbed up in bed with him he looked at me and said, “You are a good woman, and I am proud of you.” We had a good time with Grandpa that day—I colored and he inspected my coloring.
That night around 1:30 in the morning Grandpa called out for help—he didn’t want to be alone. By morning we realized that Grandpa was failing and that he didn’t have much time left. Mama thought he would be gone by nightfall and she called her sisters to come down to see him. That day Grandpa didn’t want his false teeth in or his hearing aids. He didn’t talk and he couldn’t hear—he slept a lot and we kept him company. My aunts arrived around 10:30 that night from Tennessee and they stayed up with him all night letting Mama rest a little bit—though she was up a lot in the night too.
Come Monday Grandpa wanted his hearing aid in so that he could hear, but he really couldn’t talk very well anymore. All day Monday, Monday night and Tuesday Grandpa was restless—and his three daughters were by his side constantly. There was little cat naps here and there, but they were mostly by his side. Grandpa was not a religious man, and he had no need for God. On his dying bed he wrestled and wrestled—he was not a peace. He kept pointing to something on the ceiling or in the room and we were not sure what he was seeing. He was alert—he was not drugged up with morphine like most people are when they are dying. Through multiple questions we finally realized that it was something “bad’. We talked to him about Jesus dying for him to forgive him of his sins—but he wanted nothing of it. Still he wrestled and was not at peace. Around 4:00 Tuesday afternoon we decided to sing some hymns to him—hymns that talked about God’s redeeming love and the blood that He shed for our sins. We prayed, and my aunt read Scripture to him—and Grandpa became peaceful. Whether he made peace with God or the singing, praying and Scripture reading caused the “bad” to leave we will never know until we reach Heaven—but this we know for sure—Grandpa was at peace.
It was after 10:00 when I went to bed that night, and around 12:30 Mama came into my room and told me that Grandpa had passed. When I entered the living room I knew that Grandpa was gone—yes, there was a body on his bed, but my Grandpa was gone. How grateful I was that we got to spend the last four and a half months of his life with him. We made many precious memories while he was here—with some of the most precious being made on his dying bed as he comforted us in our sorrows. If he saw you crying he would pull you down to his chest and hold you and pat you.
The Hospice nurse came and called the funeral home, and told us that Grandpa was the fourth person to die on her call duty that night and when she left our house she was heading to number five. She said that never before had that happened—usually just two in a week or a weekend. When the funeral home people arrived we were blessed that the man in charge was someone that we had gone to church with for many, many years when I was growing up. I had grown up with his son. It was 2:00 by the time everyone was gone, and we could all head to bed for some sleep.
Sleeping in was not an option for me because it was a delivery day. I snuck out of the house around 6:30 to set up the milking equipment. When I came back inside after 7:00 everyone else was waking up. I was then able to print my packing sheet and head back outside to pack the orders. The day felt new and different. I wondered if it was because spring had finally sprung: the sky was blue, the sun was shining brightly, and the bluebirds were fluttering and chattering and flirting with each other. I also felt like I had just waked up from a dream—a good dream that I wished could have continued on for many years. In my dream my Grandpa lived with us, ate with us, laughed with us, and told us he loved us—but Grandpa was now gone leaving behind him many memories.
My aunts left for their homes Wednesday morning and by Thursday morning I thought that life would be back to normal. I had been milking all the cows since Sunday—and I was grateful that I could do it so that Mama could spend the time with her Daddy. Thursday morning did not go as I had hoped though. I was outside milking when the people showed up to replace out front door with a really nice new one that Grandpa had been waiting to see. Mama was fixing to join me when she was told that she would have to stay inside to inspect and sign papers. An hour later I came inside looking for Mama and was told what was going on—and at that moment my emotions spilled out. Sure I had been brave every day for a week—but my bravery was gone and I needed my Mama. I hid in the bathroom trying to compose myself for I felt bad crying because Mama couldn’t help me milk. When I was heading back outside to milk “all” the cows I passed Mama and she asked me how I was doing. I didn’t want her to know, but it was too late—the tears began to flow. As I cried on her shoulder I realized that I had not really cried after Grandpa had died—I had shed some tears, but I hadn’t cried. It felt good to just let the tears flow. Mama did end up coming outside to help me milk the cows, and I was most grateful.
Truth be told I would have preferred to just sit around and do nothing—but the blessing of being a farmer is that there is always a reason to get out of bed and something to do to get you off the sofa. Thursday afternoon we had to round up a steer and a bull to go to the butcher. We tried it two months ago with no success—and it ended with me running into the steer with the golf-cart. We hadn’t gotten very far out of the field before the steer start jumping the hotwire fencing. I thought it was hopeless—but Papa persevered and the Lord led the cows down the lane and to the panel pens. Right when the steer got to the panels that went across the lane—he jumped them. Thankfully he didn’t go far, and once again the Lord managed to turn him around and lead him through the gate to join the others. With him caught we let the other cows go back to their field and we rounded up the bull—and that went very smoothly. I was so grateful.
Friday found me playing in the garden—for it was time to plant the potatoes. Micah weeded and composted the rows and then he broadforked them for me. All I had to do was tilth the rows and make two trenches so that we could set the potatoes where they go. Then Micah used the posthole digger to dig holes and I dropped the potatoes in the holes and covered them up. Then Micah and I packaged some eggs before Mama, Papa and I headed to town to take care of plans at the funeral home and run a few errands. While in town I saw a sign that said shrimp and I thought “out loud” how nice it would be to eat some shrimp. Mama and Papa agreed so we thought that we would pick up a “To Go” at Red Lobster—but ours had closed. I began to wonder where I could find some good wild caught shrimp, and when I got home I found out that I could order some from Whole Foods and have it delivered to our doorstep the following morning. I would cook Shrimp scampi for our Valentine’s Day Dinner. I had never cooked shrimp before in my life—but I was going to learn.
We got all our chores done Saturday morning, packed the Gainesville orders for Papa to deliver took care of a few customers and then Mama and I headed to town to tour the Olustee Festival arts and crafts booths. It was a good mind diversion. When we got home Clayton called and we rejoiced that our old intern had fully recovered from his traumatic brain injuries from falling out of a moving vehicle. My sister Samantha also showed up from Pensacola to spend a few days with us. It was close to 6:30 before I could start dinner—and I had big plans. The first thing I did was to make some banana bread—but I cooked them as cupcakes. Then I made a 7-minute chocolate frosting and Mama iced them up nice and tall. Then I roasted some broccoli, cooked some noodles and found me a recipe for Shrimp scampi and dinner was absolutely delicious—even if it was 8:00 before we got to eat.
I always sign my journals and emails—“Serving you with Gladness”, because I spend my days serving others when I milk so many cows and grow so many vegetables. The volume of work we do is to help others have good quality food. I guess it runs in the genes because my Grandpa spent his life making others successful. He was very smart, and he used his talents to help others accomplish their goals. It is a legacy worth copying.
Serving you with Gladness,
Tiare