When I turned eighteen, my mother had baked a wonderful birthday cake which she served with ice cream. Not every year was celebrated, but my mom always believed that eighteen was a significant marker and needed a special meal with cake for dessert. She had done this for a number of my siblings; I was now the last to reach that marker. I don’t really remember the menu, but knowing my mom’s desire to please, I am sure we had mashed potatoes with meat loaf and corn–a favourite meal of mine.
My sister and brother and I, (often referred to as the Three Musketeers by our older siblings) were all home and were enjoying our dinner time conversation. My grandpa sat at one end of our table and my dad sat opposite him. As soon as the main dishes were cleared, Mom brought out the cake and asked me to serve the cake and ice cream.
I blew out the candles on the cake and then helped serve the dessert. Grandpa sat next to me. When I offered the dessert, he immediately said, “None for me!”
I knew he suffered from diabetes and tried to control his sugar intake. However, this was my birthday! Surely he could make an exception. I so wanted him to have a piece of my cake and ice cream. I begged him to take a piece, even a very small piece. Finally he agreed and I served him what I considered a very tiny piece. I was happy!
We chatted for a while, then cleared the dishes and went about our normal evening activities. As per usual, Grandpa went up to his bedroom about 9:30 p.m. My brother and I continued playing some games, then went to our bedrooms downstairs. I was especially happy that we all had been home to celebrate a significant milestone.
The next morning, we heard some rather hurried steps upstairs, then some outbursts from my parents. I could not understand what was being said, so my brother and I rushed upstairs to check. Mom met us in the kitchen and told us that Grandpa had passed away during the night. What? He seemed fine in the evening. All of us soon gathered in the kitchen as Dad called the funeral home. We were uncertain as to what we should do. The funeral director soon came. He was a family friend and gave us clear instructions on what to do next.
My grandpa’s death was a shock for all of us, but maybe particularly for me. I had spent many hours chatting with him as we shared his red bench outside. Now he was gone! Then, as I began to analyze the past twenty-four hours, I suddenly was overwhelmed with the disturbing thought, “The cake I gave him must have contributed to his death. How could I have insisted that he eat a piece? I knew he had diabetes, and should not have sugary desserts?”
For many years I have suffered guilt about this incident. I know it's unrealistic, but it still niggles at me. What could I have done differently? I know now that I should not have pushed my grandpa to accept the cake. I think I have overcome my guilt, although I try not to force someone else to eat something if they have said “No.” Maybe that is the lesson for me.
Remember John 10::10.
ReplyDeleteLook how the thief has tried to rob you of a special birthday memory all these years.
Grandpa made a choice. It was his choice. Rejoice for the wonderful times you had with him on the red bench.
Precious memories.
Grandpa went to heaven, who knows what he was spared from?
Thanks for sharing grandpa with us.
As a physician, I think I can perhaps offer you some absolution here. It’s highly unlikely that a single meal did anything to acutely cause him to die. People live with high blood sugars for years, and the damage is cumulative over decades, not minutes to hours. Perhaps he knew that eating cake in the evening would mean he would be up having to pee all night. If, for some incredibly rare and obscure set of circumstances, having slightly higher blood sugar caused his heart to fail, or a stroke to happen, then the underlying conditions were already there and he would have not lasted much longer anyway. He got to enjoy birthday cake with his grandson one last time. Sounds like a nice way to go.
ReplyDeleteYour blog post is a good reminder that Children don’t have the understanding or reasoning power that adults have. I remember being deathly afraid of polio as a child, but kept it to myself. When a friend got polio I stayed away from her sister thinking it was contagious. If an adult had sensed my fear and talked to me about it that would have relieved me of unnecessary worry. As adults being sensitive to the children around us and giving them an opportunity to talk things over is so important.
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