Bad Times

My grandfather had another massive heart attack yesterday and there isn't much hope for his survival. The doctors are "making him comfortable," and that is never a good sign.

Papaw fought in WWII as a medic, he and his pals had the pleasure of cleaning up Normandy Beach after we stormed it. Before that day Papaw had wanted to be a mortician. After he came back home he worked in a rubber plant for the next 40 years. He and my Mamaw are high school sweethearts. They have never been apart since he came back from the war. He loves to laugh and has an unnatural ability to hurt himself at any time. Papaw and bandaides go together like milk and cookies.

I don't know where I heard/read this, but it rings quite true - "Pray for the living, for the dead feel no sorrow."