He stopped breathing at 4:53 PM. His heart didn’t stop beating for another half hour.

That was my grandfather.

He was a Marine. He was tough as nails. Even at 88 years old with lung cancer that had caused his entire left lung to stop functioning, his body wouldn’t give up.

Even deprived of oxygen, his heart kept pumping.

I’ve never had to deal with death like this before. Three years ago, my grandmother on my mom’s side passed away. She had Alzheimer’s and had been living in a retirement community with full-time nurses for quite some time. We all had years to come to grips with the fact she was gone (her body might have still been here, but her mind wasn’t), and when she passed away in her sleep one October morning we were ready for it. Well, as ready as we could be.

But just one month ago my grandfather was fine. Yes, the stroke he suffered earlier this decade has caused him to be a shell of his former self. Until then, he still had a part-time job at a hardware store. He still maintained his own vegetable garden. But even post-stroke, he was self sufficient.

He drove every day. He would read several books a week. He would watch Atlanta Braves baseball games. He cooked all the meals for him and my grandmother. He liked watching golf and was a fan of Tiger Woods. (I’m a little glad he has been in the hospital the entire time this Tiger Woods scandal has gone on. He never had to hear a word about it.)

And then a month ago his health began a precipitous fall.

First he came down wit pneumonia. Then he had a urinary staff infection. And then the growth was discovered on his lung. It was a growth that hadn’t been there six months ago. His doctor suspected it was cancer. He was right.

Part of me is amazed he lived as long as he did. My grandfather smoked for decades, had a massive heart attack in his 50s, never wore sunscreen a day in his life, had the aforementioned stroke, and still lived eighty-eight years. Part of me is further saddened by the knowledge that had he NOT endured all those things, he likely would have lived even longer.

For the past three weeks, my granddad hasn’t been lucid. He’s been in a hospital bed, with medications running all through his system, and tubes hooked up anywhere and everywhere.

I hate that I couldn’t talk to him. I hate that all I could do was stand beside his bed, grab his unresponsive hand and have one-sided conversations.

I couldn’t reminisce about all the baseball games of mine he and my grandmother went to over the years. Unless I was playing an away game hours out of town, they would be there. Win or lose, whether I had a good game or a bad one, they were there to hand me a Coke or Sprite afterward.

I wanted a chance to thank him for that.

I wanted the chance to tell him that even though I hadn’t yet gotten married or given him great-grandchildren, he needn’t worry because it would happen for me someday and I would be just fine.

I wanted to tell him Alabama, his favorite college footbal team, was going to be playing for the national championship.

I wanted to tell him I wished I had visited more often.

But all I could do was stand beside his bed, grab his unresponsive hand, and say goodbye.

I love you, grandpa.