One Cool Dude

It seemed as if I was always doing something to aggravate my World War II veteran grandfather. How would I take care of him?

- MARY PEMBLETON

THAT DECEMBER DAY IN 2014, I bounced my baby on my knee and tried to occupy my toddler while my 92-year-old grandfather rummaged through the closet for the right polo shirt to wear for our first trip to the Asheville, North Carolina, VA hospital. “Some people might think I’m prissy,” Grandaddy Bill said in his lilting Southern accent, “but I just like to look nice.” My grandfather had moved into our basement apartment from my sister’s house a month ago so that I could care for him as his Parkinson’s disease and mild dementia progressed.

I’d known this new arrangement was never going to be easy. But I was surprised that I was already gritting my teeth. Just convincing him to go in for a checkup today had been a struggle. “I hate being moved around,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t lived this long.”

An hour later, I wheeled Grandaddy Bill into the VA hospital. “Careful!” he yelled. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I know you didn’t want to come today.” We took a seat in the waiting room. Dozens of veterans, young and old, male and female, walked and wheeled their way to the various clinics. A lanky man sitting across from us adjusted his Vietnam Veteran cap. “You’re World War II, aren’t you?” he said to Bill.

Although deaf in his left ear, Grandaddy Bill still refused to get a hearing aid, so I repeated the man’s question loudly into his right ear. “World War II, yes, sir,” Bill said proudly. “Army, South Pacific.”

“Not many of you guys around anymore!” the man said.