It was May of 2011, no one even knew what day it was, we were all shocked with ashen faces from the news we had just received. It was cold, and my whole family took turns sitting down in the waiting room of the Greenville Memorial Hospital ER, waiting on the news to be delivered about my grandpa. “Robin Thornton,” she called. “Family of Robin Thornton to room A-17.” That sentence would be some of the last words I would fully comprehend that entire day. I was the first to peek my head around the corner of the room, ebullient even, to be given the news that my grandpa was okay. Turns out, I was terribly wrong; “So we ran a CAT scan and the results showed a tumor at the tip of his right lung. We don’t know for sure, but we’ve narrowed it down to either be a malignant tumor or the more extreme option, lung cancer.” Being a 12-year old, I could not even begin to understand the severity of the situation at hand, but I did know that cancer was definitely not a very groovy thing.

Three months had passed and my grandparents and I were sitting on the couch watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, when the call arrived. It rang three times, but in that moment it felt like an infinite amount of time had passed. I was the brave soul to answer the phone, my throat dry with anxiety. “May I speak to Robin Thornton please?” An odd noise escaped from my throat as I passed the phone to my grandpa. We sat, and we waited, and after what felt like an hour (but was actually 20 minutes) my grandfather hung up the phone with eyes threatening to spill tears. It happened in an instance; first, my grandfather, then, my grandmother, and finally, me. It was as if a dam had suddenly concaved upon itself, and no one could stop the waterworks. We hadn’t even been told the news yet, but we all knew; just like we all knew that it was time to call the family. I was finally set to move in with my grandparents for the time being after many long talks, and a few persuasive words to my mother.  My purpose was to serve as emotional support and a helping hand when needed, but mainly I was there for my grandpa.

In April of the next year, as a birthday present, he taught me to play guitar. My grandfather had already begun to lose his hair, and what was left clung to head like the hope I clung to that he would soon get better. “Hey Cami-Bear do you know what makes your hair grow back 10x faster than usual?” he said. “BOSLEY!” I shouted, the naivety and innocence in my words coming off in waves. We had laughed together for what felt like forever, and as we settled he picked up his worn out guitar and started to strum a few chords. It was in that moment I knew that when he went, that’s what I wanted, my something special he left for me, I wanted his guitar. On a day when he felt less despondent than usual, we decided that there wasn’t much time left so he might as well teach me to play guitar. I swear, if you had ever met him he could make you laugh, or cry, or think about life with only a few short chords. He was magic with a guitar; he had the innate ability to play ever since he was little. I crawled up to sit criss-cross applesauce style in front of him, and a memory started to form, that even then I knew I was never going to forget it. We had three ‘sessions’ together, day after day, where he taught me to play “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals. The day after our third session, he got really sick, really fast. It  was as if four months had passed in 24 hours, and my guitar lessons were ended abruptly. Looking back on it, I’m glad that even if it was only a few times, I got to share the experience with him; I was able to see the joy it gave him to play.

Flash forward four months to July fourth, my grandpa had lost all his hair completely, including the beard where my two year old self had once swung back and forth. He was too feeble to leave his recliner much anymore, the old red leather was cracked with age, groaning under the lightest pressure. We hung out the entire day, watching old movies and telling stories; and at nine, they started. The extravagant fireworks exploded, with the sparks came the screams of joy, the refracted light in gleaming eyes. Thinking back, I feel as if somehow he pitied me for staying in on such an amazing night, so he started to get up. “Papa! What are you doing? You need to rest, please sit back down!” I was frantic, and scared that he might hurt himself, but he determined to go outside. I followed him, hot on his slow trail, where he made his way to the backyard to start a fire. “What are you doing?” I asked skeptically. “It’s the fourth babygirl, I’m making sure we do at least a little something.” I guess that was what I admired most about him, he always knew the right thing to say and that others were always put first. He was great in that way, making sure everyone was okay, even though he was the one deteriorating. We roasted marshmallows until dawn, with blankets drawn close to our bodies as more memories were being  made.

I didn’t see him that much after that, as he was moved to the hospital and my mother thought it was best for me to come back home. Tears in my eyes, I walked out the front door of my temporary home hoping for the best. A visit every Friday, though not often enough, was all I was permitted, as his downward spiral into death got worse. Christmas Eve, Christmas day, and New Year’s all passed as I slept in the hard hospital chair. He rarely spoke, for he was in a deep slumber most of the day. My eyes were constantly puffy, tears always threatening to spill from their ducts. On January third, anxious as hell and scared out of my wits, I finally trudged home. Four days passed, and nothing but good news was delivered to me.  Four more days with no news at all, but, somehow I was so caught up with myself I didn’t notice. Looking back, I sometimes despise myself for being so selfish when he was in such a time of need. I thought to myself “Could he actually be getting better?”  I was wrong. January 11th, 2012 at 8:07 a.m. I got the life changing phone call.

I wasn’t able to attend Robin Thornton’s memorial service. I didn’t see him. There were no last words. There wasn’t any goodbyes exchanged, no “I love yous” no nothings. I left that hospital room and that was it. Was he at peace? Did he ask for me? I will never know the answers to these questions, but I do know that from the very beginning to the very end we loved each other. Some people don’t have the satisfaction of knowing how blessed they are, but I am the one that has nothing to contribute to that conversation. It’s been two years and every year it doesn’t get any easier, but it does feel good to know he’s always watching over me. I was willed one thing from the one man that I held so dear, and it was the only thing that really mattered to me. The one object that holds memories scattered throughout my brain, his old busted up guitar. The last thing I ever heard my grandpa say was, “I couldn’t do it without you, any of you.” and looking back I see just how close we were and how the little things are what matter the most in life. There were a thousand moments that I had just taken for granted- mostly because I thought that there would be a thousand more.