There's so much to say that I don't even know where to start.

I'm home.

My grandfather (on the left, with my brother) is still alive, but he has refused the invasive medical interventions that would give him more time with us. He told me he is ready to go; that his quality of life is nonexistent, and that he has had a good life. He looked at me and held my hand and we both cried. He quietly, and with much dignity, asked me to help him make the rest of the family understand his decision.

It may be my last opportunity to give him anything of value. It was also the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

Saying goodbye to him was brutally difficult, knowing I may not get back up there in time to see him again.

There's so much swirling through my head, not knowing if I did enough, not knowing if he really knows how much I will always love him, hoping he is not suffering, hoping he is not alone, not afraid. So many memories, very few regrets.

Ultimately when I think of my grandfather what I know is this.

I was the luckiest little girl who ever lived, because this young man grew up to be my grandfather.