A quickie here, just to keep the content vultures updated...

About an hour ago, on an otherwise normal Saturday, my mom got a phone call. It was her dad. My grandfather. Within seconds, it became obvious by looking at her face that this was not a typical casual chat.

A few minutes later, after hanging up, she relayed the news. I don't want to put the gut-wrenching details up here (sketchy as they currently are), but let's say it looks serious. They won't know how long she has until the diagnosis is complete. The hospital has been running tests all day, but they haven't analyzed the results. Maybe she has days. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Who knows.

According to mom, grandpa was very broken up about it. He couldn't even stay on the phone for very long, because we wanted to get back to the hospital.

My mom's reaction was immediate. She would fly out there tonight or tomorrow, whenever she could get a flight. She immediately began to run around and start packing stuff, leaving the rest of us a bit uncertain. After a few minutes, she calmed down, so we could discuss it a bit.

After checking departure times, prices, and availability, it became apparent that this was not a very good weekend for this sort of thing to be happening.

I considered whether I also ought to go. I couldn't conceive of how my presence would really be of any help. I even asked mom, "Do you think that by going, I would be helpful in any way?" It seemed like it might be a good idea to be there, but I couldn't think of how I would be able to be of any help, especially given that it would require taking time off work.

Her answer: "Well, you may or may not be able to help much. But think about this: This may be the last time you'll get to see your grandmother alive. We really don't know. It's up to you."

Now, a little background. (And I do mean little, because this is too long already. I should be packing to leave right now like everyone else is.) When I was really young, my grandparents were my favorite people in the whole world. I LOVED it when they came to visit, or we went to their house. Since they lived -- and still live, 1000 miles away, these were fairly rare occassions. They would always bring presents, were really cheery, and were great grandparents. (I think they spoiled me and my brother though.) We used to go to radio shack and look at the gadgets with grandpa, and grandma would play monopoly with us. Anyway...

Over the years, as my brother and I grew older, their visits gradually turned from something I looked forward to with anticipation, to something I would dread and hope would be over. Exactly why? It's almost as hard to quantify as the great excitement when we were little. Maybe it had something to do with their devout loyalty to the church, contrasted with our not-so-devout ways. Maybe it's easier for people in their 70s and 80s to relate to children than to teens growing into adults, and vice versa.

But fast forward to now. It's been several years since I've seen either of them. Grandma may be dying soon, or maybe not. In any case, she is in the hospital, and grandpa is beside himself with the possibility that his lifetime partner might not be around for much longer. It's time for me to be there.

My dad and brother are going as well.

After a look at the options, we decided that it would be almost as fast, and much cheaper, for us to drive in shifts. We're heading out this evening.

I've notified the people at work. Kind of an odd feeling to be sending a message telling them I don't know exactly how long I'll be out. But I've got some PTO coming. This isn't exactly how I had planned to use it (not that I ever really had any plans otherwise), but that's how life goes.

Tonight, a carload of 4 will be off to Illinois. I am filled with a sense of apprehension, adventure, and vague memories of times past. I may or may not queue up road-ramblings to be entered upon return, but I'll bring supplies to do so if necessary. We'll see what happens.

Time to pack.