A Midwest goodbye

Goodbyes are rarely short and sweet around here. It’s a long, drawn-out process that involves one step toward the door and two steps back as distractions and tangent conversations take hold of those attempting to leave.

Saying our last goodbye to my grandpa has been no different. He turned 89 in March, so we knew his time on earth was getting short, but you are never prepared for the final days.

It became very evident that he was nearing the end, and for nearly two weeks, it was an emotional rollercoaster, never knowing if he had an hour left or if he was going to hold on for a few more weeks. The uncertainty was haunting.

Static sadness hangs in the air. It’s hard to fully embrace your conflicting feelings of grief and hope while not sacrificing your own life that still needs to be lived. Chores still need to be done, meals still need to be made and plans for the weeks ahead still need to be discussed, but the despair of watching someone die is all-consuming.

In the busyness of the day, emotions are mostly contained, but in the rare moments of stillness and quiet, the dread and worry take over. Tears are cried not only for what’s about to be lost but also for the sadness I know others are experiencing. I worry how my dad is coping; I ache for my kids as they watch and learn about what is happening.

However, I am so grateful for how lucky they are to have known their great-grandpa — and not just knowing who he is but having him integrated as part of their everyday lives.

My grandparents have lived on our farm for six decades. They started milking cows in 1966. I grew up right next to them, basically sharing a yard my entire childhood. Their house was always open and just another extension of our home. It was a place for popsicles in the freezer up for grabs, unannounced breakfast drop-ins on any day and a welcome place for play and jokes.

For my kids, it was the same. They would often spend evenings in and out of my grandparents’ house when I was milking cows, helping themselves to treats, assisting with small household chores or just joking with their great grandpa. These are memories I hope they cherish forever.

My grandpa was a constant in my life. In my younger years, he helped get me to and from extracurricular activities, attended games and cow shows and was always interested in updates about my life. As we both aged, our roles reversed, and I found myself in the caretaker role, chauffeuring him to and from medical appointments, assisting with daily needs and providing intel on daily farm happenings.

It’s been hard to watch him slowly unbecome the grandpa I remember. It started years ago when his eyesight began to fail. Tractor driving became less frequent until it totally stopped. Updates about fieldwork, rainfall totals or daily happenings could only come through second-hand accounts.

His diminishing physical limitations never hindered his spunky personality, though. Giving people a hard time and making them laugh was his specialty, and he did so until his last day. He always said that, if he teased you, it was because he liked you.

He was never one to say “I love you” out loud. Rather, he showed his affection through banter and shared laughter. But, in his last days, he made sure to tell us he loved us when we left for the day. It was a heart-aching sign that he knew his time with us was coming to an end.

Farming puts you face-to-face with the circle of life concept from a young age, but the reality of losing Grandpa has been incomparable to those life experiences.

Grandpa’s final days were spent exactly where he wanted to be, in his chair at the farmhouse with family coming and going. And, in his final hours, with the windows open as the morning milk pump hummed in the background, he said his last goodbye.

Jill is a stay-at-home mom who helps part time on her family’s 140-cow dairy farm near Forest City, Minnesota. She and her husband, Aaron, have two children: Hayes and Nash.